


Tradition be damned

by Madoking



Series: Tradition be Damned [1]
Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Arranged Marriage AU, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Kass and Al are ride or die siblings I literally cant write them any other way, No Cult AU, helot!brasidas, kassidas - Freeform, mothakes!brasidas, myrrine's brother is king, strategos brasidas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-07
Updated: 2020-02-26
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:34:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 57,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22596367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Madoking/pseuds/Madoking
Summary: “You deserve a gift, even so,” my uncle continues and I don’t hear the danger in it until it’s too late. “Kassandra, stand for me.”No.My eyes are still on Brasidas as he turns to me, squaring his wool covered shoulders. I stand, unwilling or unable to resist a direct order from my King.“Come forward, I’ve made my decision.”A prized pig brandied about to the highest bidder. My eyes cast low as my dread is replaced by fire.“Brasidas, my niece’s hand for your victories. You’ll wed in Gamelion, Hera’s moon. Many blessings.”I can’t look up. I can’t face it.The fire goes cold, barely knowing warmth within my chest.Brasidas doesn’t touch me, perhaps knowing that I’d snap his wrist if he tried.
Relationships: Alexios & Kassandra (Assassin's Creed), Alexios/Lysander (Assassin's Creed), Brasidas/Kassandra (Assassin's Creed)
Series: Tradition be Damned [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1648975
Comments: 35
Kudos: 165





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> There's no cult, and Alexios and Kassandra grow up at Agiad heirs to their uncle. Brasidas was born a helot and sponsored to Spartan citizenship.
> 
> Definitions:  
> Vassilokore: daughter of the King, or a young woman related to the King.  
> Nikida: daughter of Nikolaos  
> Prinkips: Prince, or heir  
> Neanikos: young boy, an endearment  
> Chora: town

It is tiresome. I am tired. The sag of my chair gives no respite to my back as offering and offering and offering falls towards my feet. Flowers, grapes, gold, jewellery, the odd live animal. As I say: tiresome. But not unreasonable, I suppose. I’ve never seen anything like it, and hence am unable to know if this is a regular thing or whether every girl who grows into a woman is overcome like this. 

I glance to my right, my mother’s space. She presides expertly, graciously accepting the fathers as the sons drop to their knees before us. Her hands are deft and knowledgeable as she manages each old Spartiate submitting their will to the contest. They wouldn’t compete, no. They were old and frail, their knees ached and their backs broke as they even sank low to approach the dias. Their sons, however, were game for a wild goose chase. My mother, ever the Agiad, accepts them willingly as they essentially fill our coffers and farm with wealth. 

All vying. All going to lose. 

I have no intention of being married. 

“Smile, dear,” she whispers to me. I let a grimace grace my face as the next son approaches me. He is one I know, of course. I know all of these sons, simply by virtue of my brother. Daringly, many of them had whispered confidences to me recently at Hyacinthia, proclaiming both love and lust in anticipation of my coming of age. I let my face journey as I remembered the one in front of me. He was neither assured with a spear, nor that good with a map. His nose is all together too long and his chin disappears when he opens his mouth, as it was now. Gaping open like a fish. I have to push myself to smile.

“Kassandra,” he croons, dropping to a low bow. 

“Leon,” I reply, my tone light, my eyes dark. 

“For you,” he continues, unperturbed. In his hands is a blue spot of pottery, glazed and dazzling in its complex colour. He passes it to me and I feel it in my hands. Worth a lot. 

“Your work?” I ask, looking from the pot to him. 

“Oh, no,” he replies, a little off guard. He knows that I know that he would never deign to pottery, but it’s enough for his prepared speech to be put on hold. 

“That’s a shame,” I say, putting the pot in the pile. “I don’t mind a man who is good with his hands.”

“Oh, well, I don’t, ah. Pottery is-. Look, I-.”

“Murmuring will only get you so far, Leon. Thank you for the gift.”

I say it with wretched finality, waving him away. Mater has already dismissed his father. They both bow low, stepping away while still facing us. 

“Try not to torture the men, Kassandra,” she says. 

“Tell me why I’m doing this again?” I whisper, fiddling with the beading of my peplos. 

“Because your uncle has made your brother his heir, and it is your job to ensure the line.”

“But I-”

“Consider it payment for the length of time my brother let you be tutored in the spar, and be thankful that this is all he asks.”

I thin my mouth but say no more. It’s true: my uncle allowed me, with the expressed yet hesitant permission of my father, to be trained privately as Alexios was. He has no children of his own, his wife being barren, so Alexios has filled the role. Not officially, yet. He has to reach twenty himself, but his training has been that of the heir since he was around twelve: when he left home to sleep in the barracks. 

“I am forever grateful to my King,” I say, watching the milling crowd from the raised platform where my chair sits. “But surely this is something that pater deals with?”

“Not in a royal capacity. Your father will receive offers for your hand, but the man must be of calibre in order to sate your uncle.”

“If Leon is calibre, Gods help the Agiad.”

“No, he is not. But we must still be polite.”

The braziers were beginning to smoke. Sometimes, like at Hyacinthia, a herb is placed in the fire so that when it burns, the smell transports a person to the height of Olympos. It makes sensations either quieter or louder depending on the person, but the Gods dance and wink from the shadows as the smoke fills your lungs. But these braziers were holy and untouched. Shame. 

“Good evening, Myrrine, Kassandra.” 

He bows low and stays there. I let a swallow escape to my throat, and he must have been listening closely for it as a sign to stand. Hands tight behind his back and his Spartan armour proudly displayed, his eyes were self explanatory. 

“Ahh, Brasidas,” mater says, glancing sideways at me. I let my face remain impassive. 

His hands are behind his back. 

Behind his back and empty. 

Thank the Gods. 

“I just wanted to congratulate the vassilokore on gaining the rights to herself.”

Prickly. Like an orange with smooth skin but a rotten core: unworthy of a place in the fruit bowl. 

“Ahh, thank you, Strategos,” mater says. Slightly dismissive but without her trademark sharpness. 

His eyes turn to me. They are seas in a storm: unbreaking in the darkness. All of mater’s sharpness must have transferred to him as he walked towards us. His hair is a lighter brown, and the combination of dark eyes and light hair was jarring. It was unusual when paired with the Spartan breastplate of a citizen: Brasidas looks like a helot from Messenia.

Which, I suppose, he is. Talented, sponsored, given tutelage in the hope that he would repay the kindness of his city in Athenian blood. Already a strategos. 

Unworthy of an Agiad bride. Undeserving of any of my heed. Gods, I hate him. The way his eyes seek above his station. The way his proud chest reminds me of his sharp tongue. If given the choice, of all of the men within Sparta to run through with a spear, it would be this one.

I stare him down as he dares me to glance away. My mother’s breathing shifts slightly, a little quicker. Then she makes a decision. 

Brasidas’ eyes tear away from mine as my mother stands and all conversation ceases. She is no Queen, but she is the matriarch of the Agiad. She is the mother of the heir. 

“Friends, Spartans, I thank you for your gifts. All have been catalogued and a list will be given to Nikolaos.”

A prized pig. That’s what I am. The tasty morsel that could make a Spartan the father to an Agiad brood. Gods, I couldn’t even imagine. I’m as uninterested in children as I am in marriage, but I’m too valuable to let waste to singledom. Mater just continues her words as if this doesn’t concern me. I let my eyes drift back to the wayward helot standing in front of me, his eyes only on his prize. I’m sure he thinks that if he can convince the mother, then the daughter will soon follow. But mater knows of my hatred for Brasidas of Sparta.

But a tug of a question, only small. He hasn’t offered anything. And he hasn’t said anything. 

A general applause meets the end of my mother’s pronouncement, and she puts out her hand to lead me through the throng. The suitors look at me with hungry eyes and their fathers clap each other on the back and shake each other’s hands, wishing each other a fair and even run. 

I fully intended on putting their sons through hell. 

\--------

“Kass, honestly, you make it sound much worse than it is.”

He’d cut my spear arm and I was nursing it with a grim face. “I need to look beautiful Al, including being untarnished by your blades.”

It wasn’t what he was referring to, but he just shakes his hair into his eyes. 

“What about Andreas?”

“Boring.”

“What about Nikanor?”

“Too serious.”

“What about Timon?”

I scrunch up my face, letting the horror enter my eyes. 

“What?” Alexios replies, tapping my spear to invite me back to the spar. “He’s a nice enough guy.”

I don’t answer, just thrust and parry as we have all afternoon. My father eagerly received the various offerings that we’d won, and told me that he had a shortlist. Knowing him there are probably twenty men on it.

“A shortlist, Al!” I yelp, recalling how my brother had stood behind my father when he excitedly wrote down the names of the men he’d find acceptable.

“I know,” he concedes. “Uncle will make the list shorter again. Is there not anyone you like?”

“Oh, there are many that I like. There are almost none that I would give up my freedom for.”

“Ha,” he laughed, dismissively. “As if any man could tell you what to do.”

I meet his swipe and bring my foot beneath his, tripping him. It was almost too easy, but he hasn’t yet grown into his height. Four years my junior, he has the weediness that comes with youth verging on manhood. 

“He can certainly try.”

I put out my hand and he takes it, dusting off his chiton as he rises. I don’t often best him anymore but I can rely on his poor balance to bring him down even as his blades reach for me.

“Come with me this afternoon,” he says. “The war rooms are always fun to watch, and they’re better with your dry wit.”

I smile at him, my little brother who will be King, already so capable. 

“Anything to make your looming duty more bearable.”

He smiles back at me as he puts the weapons back in their rack. “I don’t believe that you don’t like anyone.”

“Speaking from experience?” I ask. 

That small sigh. The things let go in recognition that his wife would eventually be chosen for him. He was born after our uncle became King, and as the years began to crowd without a son forthcoming, our uncle began to groom Alexios for the role. He’s suited, certainly, but he’s also only sixteen. He doesn’t flirt; he doesn’t ride into the mountains with the other boys; he doesn’t learn with them at the agoge. I know he feels the loss.

“Come on. They’ll be starting soon. I hope it’s bad news, just to hear Brasidas shred the man who bears it.”

We walk quietly through the city. The columned walkways provide some relief from the sun, but none from the radiant heat as the sand and stone breathes. Captured like fire, the sun drenched pathways will be hot into the night. It is high summer, the festival season finishing with the ceremonial coming of age of the year’s crop of girls. Some had joined me in receiving our rites, but none of them were covered head to foot in longing looks. It was starting to give me a headache. 

The war rooms, it turns out, didn’t help. 

Brasidas was indeed there, his forehead furrowed in discussion of Messenia. His homeland: where his helot family still lives. My instincts were to not trust him regarding it, his decisions likely tainted by familial longing. But, I suppose, I wouldn’t trust him either way. Grating, like a fine sand on silk. 

“Quiet? How can you say ‘quiet’? The swamps are steaming with the bullshit in these reports.”

“Well,” spluttered the Lieutenant. “The men stationed there were sure that the unrest was temporary.”

“It’s never temporary,” Brasidas sprayed, throwing his arms out in anger. 

“He should know,” I whisper to Alexios as we sit in the dark corner. Out of sight, out of mind, it was easy to discuss the goings on without much heed. 

“It won’t… I mean, it couldn’t be that-.”

“Lieutenant, I’m going to give you a solid minute to get out of my sight and out of my city.”

The younger man bows, leaving the war room to the three strategos standing there. It was a circular room, carved and bloodthirsty. Red carpets, red curtains, images of the Spartan Phalanx as it rips blue opponents to shreds. 

“Lysos, what do you think?” Brasidas asks, resigned. 

“He thinks we should send more men,” Al whispers in my ear. And, sure enough:

“I think we should send more men,” Lysos says. I acknowledge Al’s correct guess with a small smile. 

“I think it requires sharper orders,” Al continues, imitating Argyros’ timber. 

“We should be harsher in our orders,” the strategos says, his fist landing on the table. I fight not to roll my eyes at his false anger. Anything to get the point across.

“”I’ll consult the King,” Al says in Brasidas’ baritone. I fight my giggles. It isn’t wise to jeer at these men when Alexios will be working closely with them very soon, but it’s just a bit of sport.

“I’ll travel there myself,” Brasidas says instead, glancing over at us. He couldn’t have heard, but he might have guessed that we were making fun of him. Al’s eyebrows knit together a little. 

The other two men bow to him as they leave the room. 

“Alexios, Kassandra,” he says, walking over to us. He doesn’t bow. 

“Brasidas,” Alexios says, learning diplomacy. “I’m sure my uncle will be happy to grant you leave to pursue Messenia. It was generous for you to offer.”

“Oh, yes,” he replies. “Pleistarkhos actually gave me rein already, so no need to fret about that.”

Alexios’ brows knit further. 

“How are you today, vassilokore?” He says, bowing his head slightly towards me. It ignites small anger in my chest, building on the fire that always starts when I hear his voice. He gave no such deference to my brother, dismissing him. 

“A day as hot as today can only call for shade and a cool tongue, don’t you think, prinkips?” I say, turning to Alexios, acknowledging the slight by reminding our wilful General to whom he speaks. The heir, royalty, Agiad: out of his reach.

Alexios doesn’t reply, just thins his mouth and turns to leave the room. I watch him go with mixed feelings.

Brasidas follows my gaze, placing his hands behind his back once more. He’s taller than me, just, and with broad shoulders and a tight waist, it provides him with a slanting profile. I linger on it just enough to acknowledge where his blood runs under his skin. A small knife is all it would take.

It wasn’t always like this. I used to respect him as a tutor, as a leading voice at the agoge. But he strove for more, demanding the mantle of Lieutenant, then Captain, and now Strategos. He rose through the ranks, encouraged by Archidamos, the Eurypontid King, to both the suspicion and dismay of the Agiad: my family. He stood in the agora, spear in hand, and received his laurel while staring my uncle directly in the eyes. Challenging; stiff with his forthright direction. This helot was going to rise and rise, and take Sparta with him. 

His next words are quiet, contemplative. A righteous fury engulfs my chest, but I refuse to step away from him. I refuse to yield ground.

“I don’t like going to Messenia,” he says, almost to the Spartans carved into the walls. 

A lie. And not a good one.

“Perhaps you could call in on your brothers and gift them your gold. Let them roll in it as you have.”

No reaction. Infuriating.

“Better than leaving it here for you to do so, vassilokore.”

I wish he wouldn’t call me that. It’s meant as an insult: Brasidas’ rise to Strategos meant the fall of my father from the position. The war had been hard on Nikolaos of Sparta. He claims he sought retirement, but I know that Brasidas’ machinations forced him out. I am not the daughter of the King, my father diminished and my uncle acting as kyrios. The title of vassilokore is reserved for the direct line. He’s essentially calling my father a failure; a walking dead man.

“I don’t roll.”

He glances sidelong at me. “No, I don’t imagine that you do. Tell me: how will you decide on a husband?”

“Oh, easily. I will delay the decision until I’m an old maid and then set free.”

His lips curl at the edges. “You may call my imagination overzealous, but I also imagine that there is no way that the King will allow that.”

“I am not a blunt carving knife, Strategos,” I reply dismissively. “I am not beholden to my King’s whims.”

Another lie. We’re very good at lying to each other. 

“Enjoy the gauntlet, vassilokore.”

He walks away, leaving me in the war room. I have only small mind for war strategy, and that’s never more apparent to me than when I look into the eyes of the frieze. I’m trained for politics: to sit in the Apella and discern corruption and the creeping of trouble for my family and for my city. A talent discovered when I was a little girl and cultivated by my grandmother. Gorgo was many things, but a gentle tutor she was not. I miss her terribly. 

Brasidas makes me feel like Alekto, walking with the cleansing sword of anger. He’s so presumptuous and fleetingly disrespectful. If it wasn’t for his mind, my uncle would have taken his head many times over. 

I know why Alexios’ flinched at the warmonger’s words. The General is under the direction of the Kings, as the leader of the Army. For Brasidas to assert himself was dangerous. I hear my breath swallow the question. If any man, regardless of his mind, spoke to a Lieutenant in such a way in the Apella, I would indicate the danger to my uncle. That is my role. All of us are to protect each other and the descendents of Heracles: never faltering.

Any man who calls Sparta his city is a danger to her. Brasidas was getting too brash for his boots. 

My footsteps echo as I leave the cool of the room, and I walk directly to the thrones. Alexios might already be here, intoning his impression of the danger. 

Instead, I find my uncle almost alone. He’s an imposing man, all height. Forty years old and greying at the edges, thirty years of Kingship has made him serious and earnest. He sits on the carved throne, eyeing a citizen come to petition for more helots for his allotment. He acknowledges me silently, a short twist of his wrist, and I sit on one of the benches, awaiting his attention.

“Sophia, the house helot, she passed this last spring. Many of the others were washed away in the flood. My wife can’t run her household on such sparse help.”

The man was on his knees, two metres or so from the dias that held the twin thrones. The normal position for a citizen petitioner but it still made my skin crawl. 

“And your neighbour?” my uncle asks.

“He hasn’t lost any. He’s also agreed to lend me some from his allotment, we just need the permission of you, my King.”

“As long as Demos agrees, then I can’t see an issue. Permission given.”

“Thank you, King. Thank you,” the man says, bowing and backing out of the room. 

“Kassandra?”

I stand and make my way in front of him. We’re alone except for his Krypteia, carefully standing watch over him. 

“Uncle, I have a problem. Has Alexios been to see you?”

“No, pet. Should he have?”

“No, but he might come to you with the same problem. We were attending the war rooms and I have… concerns.”

“Voice them,” he replies, tugging on his bracers. Leather in the hot weather: bronze would bake him. 

“Brasidas is overstepping his bounds.”

I try to remind myself that this is my role. That protecting my family is a part of the deal. We must watch, circled and vigilant, for the hint of ambition. Any inkling could bring the Agiad to its knees. Brasidas is already a target for us for his displays. He is liable to be misplaced as he campaigns, if not for the fact that those campaigns win.

“How so?” he asks, nonchalant and verging on disinterested. 

“He is inspecting Messenia personally. He directed a Lieutenant disrespectfully.”

“Your concerns are for a flippant tongue?”

“My concern is that tongue making its way into the barracks and reminding other men of their power.”

“I gave him leave to handle Messenia.”

“For your ends?”

“To his desire. He has rein.”

“Then you gift him undeserved power.”

He nods at me, and I know I’ve made my point stridently enough that he’ll at least consider it. 

“He’s marriageable,” he says, leaning forward on his knees. 

“Many men are,” I reply, feeling my sinking gut.

“Hmm…” His tone is flat: he knows my hesitancy to marriage. He might even understand it: he married for love and refused to take another wife when his first couldn’t provide him with a son. 

I bow, prematurely and without permission, and leave the throne room. 

\--------

“Ahh, my love!”

“Good morning pater,” I reply, placing a kiss onto his receding hairline. His hands are full with a wooden block, turning it this way and that as he inspects the grain and feels what it is going to be.

“Carving?” I ask, reaching for a pear. 

“Yes. A horse, I first thought, but now I’m thinking perhaps a hare.”

“I’m sure it will be beautiful, no matter what you make it.”

He sends me a warm smile, putting the wood down. “I’ve finalised the list, and …”

“...Pater…”

“...I think it will be to your…”

“...Pater…” I say slightly more frenzied.

He ignores me, like I haven’t interrupted him. 

“...satisfaction. I have provided it to your uncle, as our King and…”

“Pater!”

He looks up then, startled. 

“Please don’t make me,” I whisper, leaning towards him. “I don’t want to get married.”

“That isn’t how this works, Kassandra. Your brother needs heirs. He can’t get them himself yet, and won’t marry until he’s much older.”

“Why? Why must I be the sacrifice?”

He looks at me sadly, like one would look at a fresh basket of washing newly dropped in the dirt.

“It isn’t a sacrifice, my pet. Why don’t you want to get married?”

“Because you don’t tell me what to do, but he might.” I’m equal measures resigned and furious. Such easy pickings, it seems. My father would never restrict my movements, my uncle might but not to the extent that another man could. The way their eyes travelled over my skin, easily imagined ownership. 

“You get a choice, Kassandra. You always get a choice.”

“It’s a short lead, pater. Choice within marriage is very different to choice outside of it.”

He takes my hand and glides his thumb over the back of it. An action he knows calms me even in my most ferocious temper. But my temper is bayed, for now. This isn’t his fault, just as it isn’t mine. Royalty is just that: eclipsing duty to the ends of a Dynasty stretching as far behind you as it does in front of you. Through my mother, the blood of Heracles deigns to flow to us. Pater is Heraclid also, but not from either royal family. Mater had to generate heirs just as I do.

“The list is with your uncle, lamb. It’s up to you to assert your choice to him, you know how he can get.”

Stubborn, foolhardy. It runs in the family. 

“Yes,” I say simply, a political plan already forming. The next Apella is due in a week, during which my uncle should be made into a good mood with tidings from Messenia and Argolis. Afterwards, after some feat of rhetoric in his favour, I’ll approach him with my choice. 

My choice is time. Time to be who I am. To delay what is inevitable; to cherish my own self within the city that demands my blood. 

Time. 

\--------

I sit quietly, my scrolls lain out in front of me, their contents my expectations for the proceedings. If they stray, I note it down in red ink. Each man here is known intimately to me, not just because of my station but because of the watchful eyes my grandmother taught me: to see their past and their present as one in the same. Men are their learnings, and what they’ve experienced is the best indicator of how they will both vote and argue. 

My uncle and his partner King sit languorously, easing the heat of the day off their backs with seemingly uninterested grimaces. This Apella is designed to limit their power. Ephors are voted from the Apella, as are the Gerousia. Each arm of Spartan governance working together, seamlessly, to ensure the city enjoys incorruptible prowess. 

But, of course, the King’s niece sitting in on proceedings is unthreatening. The men here know that I am the only thing standing between them, and a challenge from their King. 

One Spartiate, a scar across his chin, is droning about farming and crops and plans for excess. The rains were good, the wheat is full and healthy: Sparta has some to spare. His name is Ariston and my uncle has nothing to fear from him, so I let my mind wander somewhat. 

It is a mistake. 

The conversation meanders around me until a galloping horse rears outside, sending the men to their feet in alarm. No weapons are to be drawn here; no blood is to be spilt here, so strict are our sacred laws. I feel dishevelled by the noise, like I’ve been caught in a lie. 

A bluster of red charges into the hall, covered in dirt and sweat from the ride, but a wide and perfect smile on his face. Without armour, his chest bare, but with a red cloth tied with leather on his waist, Brasidas of Sparta first bows to his Kings then turns to the rest of the Apella. 

“Athenians,” he breathes through his grin. “Found us in the hills. They were assisting the helot population to evacuate. Routed, every one of them.” His eyes turn back to the Kings, Pleistarkhos in particular, like he is weighing taking a bet. “Without the support of the Spartans around our camp, we still defeated them. You withheld from me, King.”

Silence is a funny thing. It can be loud, pregnant, ready to break. Or it can be quiet, sly, easing into the belly of a snake. This was the second type as every man in the room held his breath and watched, ready and willing to assent to what was no doubt Brasidas of Sparta’s downfall. The man himself was breathing hard, no longer smiling, with a new sheen of sweat across his chest. I watched him minutely, readying my own report within my head to give to my King when he inevitably asked it of me. 

“Brasidas, you have my resounding thanks. Were the troops I promised unwilling?”

“They were absent completely, King. No scout, no relay, no message. Just me and my phalanx of men against the four hundred Athenians who came upon us.”

“Then we must celebrate your victory, Brasidas.”

My uncle stands, his arms outstretched. Every man here knows of how Brasidas agitates the Agiad, how his focus on the Eurypontid is almost non-existent. How Brasidas decided long ago that the position my father held was his by rights and nothing would stand in his way. 

“You deserve a gift, even so,” my uncle continues and I don’t hear the danger in it until it’s too late. 

“Kassandra, stand for me.”

No. 

My eyes are still on Brasidas as he turns to me, squaring his wool covered shoulders. 

No. 

I stand, unwilling or unable to resist a direct order from my King. 

“Come forward, I’ve made my decision.”

No. 

This can’t… 

I don’t accept… 

No. 

But, still, I walk forward. A gift. The gift. A prized pig brandied about to the highest bidder. My eyes cast low as my dread is replaced by fire. 

“Brasidas, my niece’s hand for your victories. You’ll wed in Gamelion, Hera’s moon. Many blessings.”

I can’t look up. I can’t face it. 

The fire goes cold, barely knowing warmth within my chest. 

I am the temper. I am the answer to ensuring this man does not challenge my uncle, the King, and eventually my brother when he becomes one. 

There’s a splattering of applause, many of these men themselves vying for my hand. Many of them now seeing what ambition and a challenging disposition can achieve. Royal children, possible heirs. 

Brasidas doesn’t touch me, perhaps knowing that I’d snap his wrist if he tried. I stay in the Apella only long enough to not cause offence, bow to my Kings, and leave, abandoning my scrolls.


	2. Chapter Two

Taygetos is quiet. The winds are eerily silent, despite the winter weather. Snow stomped into ice slides the horse evenly down the path as it meanders into the grove. Sunlit, blindingly. Achingly mundane in its regularity, the white of the mountain breathes its sacred approval. If the mountain didn’t approve, then Zeus would have struck the helot down. If Hera didn’t bless the match, then one of her son’s might have blessed the blade that took out his throat. War looked like that. Hungry and easily forgotten in the trade off between what should happen, and what happens anyway. Gods are conniving but seemingly happy that I was wedding a slave. 

Whispered and alone, I dismount my black mare with my basket in hand. My mother used the same basket, and her mother before her. My great-grandmother may not have, but we don’t speak of how the Ephors demanded Anaxandridas, my great-grandfather through Gorgo, take a second wife when his first was unable or unwilling to bear children. The second bore the heir, Cleomenes, but he was mad, they said. Gorgo was his daughter and one of his primary advisors. Married for his politics. Married to ensure the Agiad did not splinter when Leonidas, son of the first wife, was to become King. 

I feel like a tiny piece of flint. Ignored, forgotten in the saddlebags of Sparta until the time when night falls and I’m desperately needed. Perhaps that’s the answer I’ve been seeking in the two months since my uncle’s pronouncement: to hide, small and useful, in the dark. 

I need my King’s permission to leave Sparta. I need his nod, his surety, the twist of his wrist. Even without him being kin, as a citizen I would need it. I’m unwilling to ask. 

I leave the horse tied to a tree just on the edge of the clearing and venture into knee deep snow. White, sacred, untouched. Not even animals venture here in the deep winter, trailing down the hill to where food is less scarce. I bend, encouraged by the silence, and push snow away from the wet ground. Greenery greets me, seeming to breathe the air I provide with my movements. Swaying slightly, approving. Always approving. 

My father approved. My mother approved. Usually it is my choice. If I was anyone else, I would have been able to veto the match and storm the gates of the man who insisted. But, instead, agreement rang through the Agiad. But I am flint, and I am good at hiding. 

His hands were empty. His hands were empty and behind his back. That’s the only thing I hold onto: that Brasidas of Sparta did not offer and did not presume himself. He was ordered, too. I haven’t passed words to him since I left the Apella that day, and he’s been rightly busying himself in Messenia. The next time we’ll meet will be our wedding day, surrounded by the overwhelming joy of Sparta. 

Perhaps I’m not flint. Perhaps I’m just fire. 

There, my hand says as it trails through the snow, there is the petal softness you’re looking for. 

I pick the flower and study it. White, with a pale green centre. Four petals, no, five, and the perfect formation despite a foot of snow. I place it gently into my basket, not praying to Hera. I don’t need her blessings for my marriage, I know it will be unhappy either way. 

But I do pray to Hestia. I don’t want children. I don’t want to play the good wife. I don’t want the fire in my house to be restricted to the hearth. 

I collect them as per our tradition. Alone, quietly. I marry him in two days, the full moon presiding over us. These flowers will adorn my veil and my vined cape, the white of innocence gifting itself into the partnership that Sparta craves. As I fill the basket, my mind turns to the paring knife I always keep at my hip. The tutelage of the heir dispels of such knowledge and I didn’t learn it from Sparta’s agoge. But my mother, in the mild fear that every mother holds when their daughter begins to venture outward, taught me how to use the knife. A small blade in my larger hands can nick a vein, a blood stained neck the only indication of a man’s presumption. I’ve never used it, but soon I might. 

Brasidas has been a thorn. Too clever to kill, too courageous to temper, too agitating to demote. But his wife, in his marriage bed, is liable to put a fix to that. 

My basket is full. I strap it to my horse and begin the long hike down the sacred mountain.

\-------

She’s crying, like it’s her who should mourn. Like it’s her who was forced into this. She loves her husband, my father, dearly and I know that. She isn’t crying for my sake, no, but for her own. She is thoroughly her mother’s daughter, and the stoney, emotionless exterior is tempered only by my pater’s warmth and love. I don’t think I’ve ever even approached her with a problem, let alone allowed myself vulnerability under her eye. She would punish me for it, if not outwardly, then in the small way her mouth turns down. 

But she’s crying now, singing one of the songs. Demeter’s lament. The mother who lost her daughter to a loveless marriage even though Persephone ate the fruit willingly. I am not the Goddess of Spring: there is no sweetness awaiting me. Instead, my husband will be my keeper.

But, still, she cries. I find myself reaching my hand out to her shoulder and her shrugging under it. It’s a normal reaction: she isn’t used to this kind of emotional attention. Surrounded as we are by attendants, the protectors who will shoo away sprites and confuse any wayward Gods who seek to claim me from my ever deserving husband. I wish they would. Ares could descend and stand between us as the priest announces the rite and demand me. Apollo would be less affronting, glancing as the sun, blinding Brasidas of Sparta in order to steal me away. 

But no. The Gods don’t exist and neither do I, really. I left myself when the decision was made. I betrayed my own soul in order to accept and submit to my King’s will. The wolf inside me has been quietly yelping, nosing for recognition. 

My mother stops singing the lament and my veil is placed over my head. We’re at my father’s house, where the feast and rites will occur. During the sacrifices, Brasidas will claim me, cutting my hair and stealing me to his own estate where I will wake as his wife. I resist in my small ways. 

I can hear them now. The men are making their way down the road, many likely already drunk, accompanying the strategos as he receives his just rewards. For my part, I remain very still. The women have circled around me, their approval cresting as the wave of men come towards us. My father will be among them, as will my brother and my uncle. Alexios apparently attempted to have his voice heard, my own words in his mouth, but he is not even a citizen yet and his words were meaningless. 

The men bray to silence, their bawdy songs quieted as they enter my father’s estate and the sacredness of the event dawned. A light touch on the front of the veil, a fingering of the embroidery, probably. I can’t see through the cloth as a feature of the material, but only he may touch me tonight. I can’t even hug my father. 

He lingers in the movement as the tide of anticipation swells in the crowd around us. This is an essential part of the ceremony: Sparta must approve. Elopement is death, especially for me as a royal. Sparta must agree, ordain, encourage. She needs her children for her army, to bloody the fields of Hellas. And Sparta needs to ensure the robustness of those children, and what better way to do that than to punish elopement with death?

He lifts the veil then, fumbling slightly to bring it behind my braided hair. I don’t raise my eyes defiantly as I might have if we weren’t surrounded by my kin. If he thinks me submissive, he might mistake me and the knife I bring to his throat later today. 

“You look-.”

I can’t stand it. I hate him, moreso for this than before. I hated him for the threat he held to my family, for his arrogance, for the barbed words and the way he routed my own rhetoric; but I’ll never forgive him for being my husband. 

“-beautiful, Kassandra.”

I don’t reply. I don’t look at him. He touches my chin lightly and I fight not to recoil. His hands are too warm, likely with drink. Good. That will make this easier. He lifts it, bringing my eyes up and towards his. Dark brown, like a burnt field. A flicker of something else: pride, enjoyment of his prize. But no happiness. 

I don’t speak and close my teeth hard as he brings his mouth to mine. Small and slow, the chaste kiss informing our attendants that they can now cheer for the union of Agiad and Strategos. He still lingers with his fingers in the beading of the veil, perhaps tangled. Caught. Tied down. Then he breaks from me and takes my hand in his, leading me to the top table. 

“My King,” he says through a fog.

“My blessings to your marriage, Brasidas and Kassandra. May the Gods descend and bless you.”

I’m tugged along helplessly as he directs me to sit and then moves away. No one sits on my other side. No one is allowed to. This table is just for us. Men and woman approach: kin, colleagues, friends. All with their happiness and their approval beaming from them. Brasidas returns and I don’t notice until he pushes the plate he filled towards me. 

“I’m not hungry,” I say quietly. Almost a whisper. 

“Eat, please,” he says.

“Is that an order, kyrios?” I say a little louder. 

He balks a little, but relaxes almost as quickly. “It’s a suggestion. It would offend your father if you do not eat.”

“I’ll be easier for you to coerce without the energy that food provides, strategos.”

He doesn’t reply straight away, just turns the large plate 90 degrees. It’s a sharing plate: our first meal. “Start with the meat, it’ll give you the strength to drive the knife in when you’re ready.” 

Then he’s up and away from me, accepting thanks and gifts without me. 

I don’t remember the rest of the feast. My brother comes to me eventually, reaching for me. I remind him that no one else can touch me tonight. That I’m reserved completely. His sadness reaches his face in a way that betrays him: he’s been practicing training his face for when he is King. To make it emotionless, to make his next move more difficult to discern. 

“I’m sorry, Kass. It should never have come to this.”

“And yet,” I reply dispassionately. I’ve since removed the veil completely and sit with only a peplos. The night is continuing, even as I try to submit time to my will. Time was all I needed; I just needed time and then I would have gone willingly into marriage. But no. I need to provide heirs. But, one silver lining: Korinth is dragging us into a war with Athens. Their insult on the Chalkidike has sent envoys to the unbeatable Sparta, and I suspect that my new husband, if he survives the night, will be away at war for the most part. But, then, so will Alexios. That’s the corresponding cloud.

The crowd quiets and my brother takes his seat at the right of my uncle. Brasidas returns to me, his face flushed. He’s not angry, but looks pleased with something.

“Drinking well?” I ask flippantly.

“I just won a flock of chickens from Aristos; eggs for you, wife.”

I push my chin out, my teeth grinding. “I’m not your wife yet.”

“No, but the rite is next.”

I let my chest cave. I don’t know how I will force the words out, let alone let them travel to Olympos. And he will kneel before me as I cover his face in the ashes of my parent’s hearth.

Sure enough, the priest calls for silence and gestures to us. The dias is raised in the centre, the feast cleared away and the red carpet of royalty placed. I wish it was dirt. Seeing Brasidas of Sparta kneeling on rocks and filth would add a vindication to the proceedings. 

Instead, he kneels on plush wool. I stand above him, my hands forced onto his shoulders. It’s almost possessive: like I could keep him in subservience for all the length of his days. Like I could silence him with a look, rein in his errant thoughts, overpower him with my will. Instead he looks at me with his dark eyes, bright in the light of the braziers. The shadows move across his face as his proud brow reminds me of his hubris. A man that must fall. I refuse to fall with him. 

The priest brings the ashes towards me and I cover my hands in the rose oil, slicking it towards my arms. Then, not taking my eyes from his, I dip them in the grey evidence of a home and start with the brow that is so often furrowed. In fear, in thought, in acknowledgement of his scheming place. It goes dark in the firelight, the maroon veins of his forehead obscured. Then I push down his temples and across his nose, pushing slightly too hard on his skin. I know this hurts: I’d placed rosemary in the fire last night knowing that the ashes would sting as I adorned him. He would never yelp from it, never acknowledge the pain at all, but my small way of reminding him to whom he marries. Flint. Fire. Ash. 

“Your words, Brasidas of Sparta,” the priest says quietly, encasing us in incense. These words are between us and the Gods, the smoke rising. No one else can hear us, no one else is allowed to. It is a sacred place. 

“Kassandra, daughter of Nikolaos of Sparta, I swear to keep you whole; keep you loved; keep you safe. I swear my heart into your keeping; my mind to your problems; my soul to your relief. I am yours, until the day I enter Hades. From now, until forever, I swear to be your husband.”

It isn’t rote. There are no words that are meant to be spoken at this point. It’s secret, and he chose that to say. Why.

“Your words, Kassandra Nikida of Sparta.”

“Brasidas of Sparta, I am for your sharp mind, your strong arm, your astute tongue. I swear my hands to your work, my spear to your troubles, my lineage to your children. I am yours, until the day I enter Hades. From now, until forever, I swear to be your wife.”

“Stand both.”

Brasidas stands, taller than me, and the priest puts a knife in his hand. He holds out the other, gesturing to my palm and I give it to him. A small slice, my blood spilling onto the red carpet as the priest takes the knife from him and replaces it with a white rose. He stares me down as he directs my bleeding hand over the top of it, turning the pure white petals black in the dark. Then he releases me almost as quickly, throwing the rose onto the brazier. It crackles, smelling like iron and flesh, the smell sent for the Gods’ enjoyment. 

The cheer goes up then, louder than it did when he first arrived in my father’s yard. The assent, the enjoyment, the assurance that the strength of the Agiad and the will of Brasidas of Sparta will join to provide. They can’t touch me almost as willingly as they clap Brasidas on the back. I’m herded, unwillingly, to the edges of the crowd as they mill to view the sacrifices. I know Brasidas is being herded similarly.

I’d prepared for this point. Mentally, I was blank. Emotionally, I was blank. But I must still inhabit a physical form, unfortunately.

The women turn from me and towards the priest, gifting me privacy. I let the sob escape my throat only once, then swallow it down, down, down, until it is guarded and tended to by my fury. I don’t remember a time when my sorrow wasn’t accompanied by anger, and today is no different. 

The taking. Hundreds of years ago, before our Gods appeared and our rites changed accordingly, men used to steal women away from their father’s homes. The woman would then wake as his wife. It is the same now: how the old has met the new. The rites must be performed, but Brasidas will still take me. That’s why the crowd herded us to its edges. That’s why they turn away from us now, politely allowing my husband to steal me away from them. When my absence and his is discovered, they will mock a search. If they were to find us, they would then pretend not to, letting my husband fuck me into wifedom. 

“Kassandra?”

Whispered. Unsure. Maybe drunk. 

“Brasidas.”

I face him and see a demon. The ash does his profile no favours, the eyes of Deimos staring out at me. 

“I won’t touch you without your permission, I swear it.”

I tilt my head slightly, eyeing his neck. Only a nick. 

He’s underestimating me. 

“But we should go,” he continues, offering his hand anyway. I turn back to my kin, eyes finding my brother’s. He’s lost his sadness, face now turned to resignation. It’s the emotion I hate the most in him. He had it when he became the heir; he had it when our father lost his station. It usually belies a slow action in him, a snake sitting under a rock and waiting. I smile only small at him, sending my own strength through to him. Then I turn and take Brasidas’ hand. 

\--------

We don’t speak as we walk back to his estate. It isn’t far from my father’s, along the western road on the other side of the river. Rich farming land, it’s said. I guess I’ll find out. 

He pushes the door open for me. It’s a single level house made of mud bricks, with shuttered windows on all of its walls except for the western. The sun can be harsh, and this house was built with that in mind. All of the bedrooms, three in total, extravagant, are on the eastern side of the house and shaded by olive trees. The walls are a golden colour, with blue window shades and grey furnishings. A series of benches lined with pillows and blankets, a hardy carpet, a dining table with eight elaborately carved chairs. Brasidas must entertain a lot. But of course he does: no one could gain the political might he has without gaining a few friends, too. 

“There are multiple beds in the house,” he says quietly, lighting the brazier closest to the door. “You can choose whichever one you wish.”

“Don’t be nice to me, Brasidas,” I reply briskly, dismissing him with a twist of my wrist.

“Why not? It could make the difference between you using your knife,” he turns his head slightly to glare at me, “or not.”

“I think we both know that I’ll use it either way.”

“Ribbons or simply a nick?” 

“A nick, there,” I say, touching the blood pumping under the skin of his neck. It’s warm with the wine he drank. “Could be an accident.”

“Then by all means, sleep in the third bedroom. It has the smallest bed.”

He walks away from me and towards the first bedroom, the largest. The one that he would take me in if this was a loving pairing. 

I unsheath my knife, letting the metal clang against its holder, and he freezes, his shoulders high and tense. He turns back to me, eyes sharp and mouth chewing. Our eyes are only for each other, the movements instinctive and drawn out. I can feel, rather than see, as he shifts his feet into a defensive posture. He can feel, rather than see, as I change my grip on the blade, ready to throw. 

I’m not a fool. I saw this moment coming. I planned it. This isn’t a political strategy used to ensure that the alliance with Korinth was within Sparta’s favour. This isn’t me lifting my chin to signal to my uncle that he should pay careful attention to a lone petitioner. This is a battle, this is a war. And the grip on my knife shores up. 

I throw, the thunk of the blade hitting the wooden floorboards. As with before, we don’t take our eyes of each other as the knife becomes uselessly embedded in the floor. I breathe out, lending the air the smell of the eaten lamb prepared by my mother. 

Then I stalk him, walking closer to him, defiance dripping off me.

“You’ve forgotten something,” I say, licking my lips slightly. 

“Have I?” he replies, drunk, unwilling to control himself. Unable to resist. I saw it in his eyes when he lifted my veil and I see it now: unheeded want. 

“I don’t like you, Brasidas. I’ve made that much clear, but I am nothing if not a slave to the traditions of my city. Sit.”

I push his chest with my palm, the linen of his himaton yielding to creasing. Soft, fabric worn and worn again to state events. Not the work of a wife, lovingly woven for the use of her household, but bought with the gold he’s earnt with his unimaginable ambition. He stumbles, knees folding until he is sprawled on the bench seat behind him. Balance off, hands hot, yielding. Like this marriage was all he could imagine. His eyes still haven’t left mine and I won’t let them. I open my mouth slightly and his gaze flicks to it before returning to rest on my vulchured stare. 

I don’t hesitate and neither does he. My hand grazes his chest and I straddle his lap as it dangles on the bench, the pillows thrown and shifting under the weight of both of us. His hands roam, forgetting his promise of only twenty minutes ago. He wouldn’t touch me without permission, but I’m giving it, however unwillingly. The need in his eyes becomes stark as he hoods his eyes. I caress his lap with mine slightly, bringing him up to speed. His hands have finished roaming, settling on the small of my back. I shift my shoulders slightly, encouraging his fingers to venture under my peplos and to bare skin. He complies beautifully. 

I haven’t kissed him yet, just letting him close the space ever so slowly, until I feel the first indication of hardness underneath me. The signal, I told myself. 

I kiss him gently at first, uneager. Hating him. 

But I was built for politics. I was trained, groomed, tutored to be the silent mind in a room full of men who underestimate me. And Brasidas of Sparta has underestimated me. 

I slip my hand, the one not currently resting on his chest, to my leather garter, where the second blade lies. It’s still there, sharp and sure. 

I deepen the kiss, pushing my mouth open with all of my grimacing strength. But I falter slightly, hesitant. And he feels it. 

I unsheath the knife, quicker than I ever have, because I recognise this. He’s seasoned like a roast pig: battle worn and with instincts sharper than a spearhead. Hesitancy only hastens the grave. 

His hands are tangled in cloth, as I planned, but he doesn’t need them to push me violently to the floor and block my arm with his weight. My head hits the wooden floor and I feel blood enter my mouth as my teeth cut my tongue. I call out in pain, but he’s smarter than that. In the time it’s taken me to reach the floor, he’s disarmed me and is holding the knife to my own throat. Never taking his eyes off me, only now instead of unbridled desire, I find cold fury within them. 

“Wife,” is all he says. He pins my hips to the floor and I squirm beneath him. A small fear blooms in me, but I silence it with sheer will. He won’t kill me today as I planned to kill him. I’m the shield between him and my uncle’s wrath, now. Hard won, not easily lost. 

He captures both of my wrists in one hand and holds them above my head. Then gently, more gently than I deserve, he presses his lips to mine and holds them there as the hand holding the knife slashes my hair short. Usually done after the taking, the hair is the final act that solidifies me as his, and only his. My braid scatters across the floor from the force of the cut. 

He presses my lips harder, and I’m so engulfed in fury that I let him. He’s captured me, easily and minutely, and I’m angry that my body yields to him. He isn’t sweat ridden, he isn’t fresh from battle, he isn’t speaking his beloved doublespeak as he outplays the King. Instead, he holds my hands above his head, pins my hips beneath his, and claims me. 

I hear the unmistakable thunk of a blade being driven into wood and know that both of my knives sit side by side in the floor. 

I hate that my body yields to him. But, still, I open my mouth to him and his power. He’s taut and unimaginably solid against me. It’s his turn to hesitate, and I don’t blame him. But when his tongue enters my mouth, I don’t have a choice to make. I just return his intoxication. Unburdened, unbridled, drunk. Unable to contain my groans as his now empty hand roams to the clips at the top of my peplos and undoes them. He basks in it, I know. He should be dead. I should have killed him. I should have… 

His hand is still calloused and hot, still the same hands he used to push my father from his position. But it travels down to my waist, the fabric no longer a trap for him. The belt is next, undone easily, as if he’s practiced exactly this. The hand holding mine slips a little as he becomes distracted by the sight of me, exposed. I tilt my hips up lightly, letting my teeth find his lips and bring his head closer towards me. It’s violent, all of my anger channeled into each action. I’m not only yielding to him: I’m yielding to this next life. Where he will be a husband I hate. Where I will be less than I ever was. No longer an Agiad of note, but a wife. Simply a wife. 

I take it out on him, slipping my hands from his as he lets me go. Free and strong, I push him over to his back and straddle him again, feeling his need beneath me. His hands find my hips as they did before, pressing tight on my tense skin. I break from the harsh kiss, feeling the roughness of his stubble on my chin and cheeks, like sandpaper. He lets me slap him across the face, the red mark stark even with his darker skin. He brings one hand to it, touching it lightly, and I aim again, fully expecting him to capture my wrist. But this one lands, too, the other side. He sits up under me and kisses me again, with vigour and his own fury. I shift his chiton out of the way and push myself down onto him, fitting ourselves together with only the smallest of moans as he enters me. I don’t slap him again, but I do trail my nails down his back and raise welts in his skin. His eyes are no longer cold, but the depths of Tartarus. Fury, cracked and leaking, as I ride him until he’s oblivious.

When he stops panting, I’m reminded of power. I’m reminded of the way a witch can lead a man simply by the desire always sitting on the surface of his bones. 

Marriage isn’t the end of my power. Perhaps, in the way Brasidas of Sparta accepted my anger and I turned him from the stiff and structured fighter who disarmed me into the lulled and yielding gelding lying below me, I could wield him as his own weapon. 

His prize; his reward for striving; his temper. I can be all these things as I destroy him, starting with his cock.


	3. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: threatened non-con.

“You won’t beat me, Kass.”

“I can certainly try.”

But he was right. He’s better at this game than I am. Cool and collected, sitting calm in his chair as he surveys his pieces, he is in stark contrast to the way I am hunching over, tension rising from my shoulders. We’d bet a prized ornament: an eagle in flight carved by our father. He said it was for both of us when he gifted it ten years ago, and we’d kept it in our shared room since. But now that I lived separately, I wanted it. 

Focusing, the knock at the door made me jump. Al grimaces at me. He doesn’t call out as he normally would if he was expecting someone: with a light and airy invitation. Instead, he knows who that knock is, and his face challenges me to call out. Between us, our strong wills battle until I finally relent. 

“Come in, strategos.”

Brasidas opens the door to my parent’s house and ventures inside. Hesitant, as he always is here. He never relaxes and likely for good reason. Even if I cooled from my drive to murder him, Alexios certainly has not. 

“Kassandra, _prinkips_ ,” he says, bowing. 

“Husband,” I reply, not taking my eyes off the game board. I’ve almost got him, especially now that he’s staring daggers at the helot. His distraction is my victory.

There. Two moves and I’ll have the heir under my thumb. 

“Are you here for something?” I ask, finally moving my eyes to him. 

He’s nervous. His hands are behind his back, his trademark, but I can see the muscles of his forearms strain. 

“Prince Kallias of Korinth is in the Apella. I hoped to present you.”

It was the wrong thing to say, to me or to my brother. I still smart from the feeling of ownership and I’ll almost certainly never forgive my uncle for putting me in this position, just as I’ll never forgive Brasidas. I feel my own breath swallow my harsh retort, brought to heel by Al’s violent outburst. 

“She’s not a pig, Brasidas. She isn’t to be put on display.”

He turns to my brother, eyes strong and face impassive. “You don’t command me yet, boy.”

I raise my eyebrows, my mouth opening to deliver a spray, but Brasidas is already walking away. “I’ll wait for you at the Apella, Kassandra.”

We both watch him go, the game abandoned. My chest is rising and falling in quick bursts. One of the reasons my drive has tempered is because he seemed to learn to respect my brother: using his title, deferring to him. That’s in tatters now. 

“You should have sliced him on your wedding night,” Alexios says, sitting back down. “Or I should have.”

“Then we’d be without our ever brilliant tactician.”

“I can’t believe you went through with it.”

I turn my eyes from him. I can’t believe that I did either. Romantic notions of escape, running with a grey cloak and a month’s provisions into the mountains have plagued me both before and since. I haven’t shared any of what transpired that night, nor will I. It’s early spring and I’ve been Brasidas’ wife for two months. He’s not been home for most of it: he still sleeps at the barracks and war drives him as much as the hatred he has for my family. He’s also almost definitely been avoiding me, which suits me fine. We haven’t touched each other since that night.

My hatred of him bubbles, but not as urgently as it did. He’s ceased challenging my uncle, which I know was the point. If he brings down my family now, we take him with us. 

“Shouldn’t you be greeting the Korinthian prince?” I ask my brother, changing the subject.

“I already have. Uncharming and mildly unkind. He’ll be our guest at the dinner tonight.” He eyes me, a mischievous smile playing on his lips. “I think you’ll like him.”

“Why?”

“Because of his fine golden hair, of course.”

I shove his shoulder, daring him to continue. He doesn’t, instead flicking his finger and, with a single move, eliminating my chance of winning the game. “Tough luck, sister.”

I can only grimace. Perhaps pater can carve me another one.

\--------

A chiton would probably do. The blue one: rich in golden embroidery. Coupled with my red cloak, I’ll be a sight. 

_Present me_. 

But this feels less like a butchery and more like the role I’ve always had in the Apella: the slow and considered framing of intentions. The strategos will have me there as a wife, as an Agiad, but not as a political ally. That will be a surprise to our Korinthian guest. Brasidas hasn’t really seen me work this way, and when he has it has always been adverse to his own ends. Telling my uncle of his unchecked ambition; seeing the pieces fall in the manner the strategos wants and preventing it. Maybe he prefers to have me on his side this time. 

I bring the gold necklace to my throat, the metal glinting in the sunlight. It has a clasp and chain at the back, delicate against my skin, but otherwise it is a wide and heavy disk. I avoid wearing it even to state events, as much as it resembles a collar, but I’ll wear it today. His wedding gift to me. His ownership of me. He presented it in an exquisitely carved box, kneeling before me as I combed through my cropped hair. 

_For you_ , he’d said. I hadn’t moved from my position on the smallest bed in the third bedroom as I stared down at the olive wood. 

I remember reaching out, refusing to touch his fingers as I brought the box out of his hands. 

_For my wife,_ he’d continued, watching me with his dark brown eyes. 

It was held on a bed of red woven silk, the gold shining and polished. 

It was the type of gift reserved for a beloved after fifty years of marriage, not a hatred filled siren who attempted to slit your throat the previous night. But even so, I accepted it wordlessly.

Brasidas is waiting for me at the Apella, as he said he would be. 

“What am I to play today?” I ask, ignoring his reaching hand. “Wife, Agiad, political enemy?”

“Just the first. Don’t reveal your kinship yet, let them fall to you.”

“Ah. So you _are_ using me politically.”

“Yes, my _vassilokore_. Yours is the only throat to be exposed, and it will be easy to find with all of the gold adorning it.”

He reaches for my hand again, grasping it before I could move it away, and tucking it into his elbow. He walks me forward into the darkness of the room.

“Brasidas of Sparta, how good to see you again. And who is this?”

Alexios was right. He has golden hair and a proud chin. His himaton looks unused to travel, the colour not hiding the dust of the road. A small blunder, but we probably shouldn’t fault him for the things he’s unlikely to know. He looks to be about my age but shorter, stockier. Brasidas’ grip on my hand grows a little stronger. 

“May I present my wife, Kassandra Nikida of Sparta.”

I bow, but not to my waist. 

“Kassandra, this is Kallias, second son to the King of Kornith.”

“A pleasure, your highness,” I croon, increasing the timber of my voice. “Did you travel well?”

His eyes sweep me as I ask the question, jumping between the long legs exposed by the chiton and the slits in the sides of the fabric. It feels like my days did before the strategos claimed me: when men were still vying. If there was one thing that marrying one of the most powerful men in Sparta has awarded me, it is the absence of longing looks. They leave a film on my skin. 

“Quite well,” he says breathlessly. His eyes shift to Brasidas quickly before landing on my lips. “I do hope you’ll be joining us for dinner, Kassandra?”

I hate this part. I hate the quick deference to a man I hate. All foreign men do it: women are owned differently in the rest of Hellas than they are in Sparta. For as much as I bray about Brasidas being my husband, in Athens, for example, he could have claimed me at fourteen and would have the power to keep me in our home indefinitely. Some girls marry men twice their age and then don’t see daylight for years. Sparta has protected me from that, at least. 

“Yes, I believe I will be,” I reply warmly. 

The prince smiles joyously, then turns to the strategos. “Come, Brasidas, leave your wife to her weaving so we can discuss the trade of men.”

Brasidas nods and gestures Kallias to a stool sitting on the opposite side of the room. Helots have already filled the table with cold meats and fruit, and the wine is full. Then he turns to me, whispering quickly into my ear. 

“You can stay or go, I don’t mind. But I’d like your opinions, if you were willing to stay.”

“I do have weaving to attend to,” I reply sarcastically. His lips turn up a little at the edges. I can feel his breath on my cheek and turn away from it. “I’ll stay.”

He nods again, directing me to the bench in the darkest corner. Where I usually sit when the Apella is in session. There’s even a blank scroll waiting for my thoughts. 

Kallias watches as I sit, eyes confused until Brasidas sits so as to obscure me. I retrieve my spindle from my pocket anyway, the womanly venture a disguise when necessary. The Prince seems like the type to hide if he thinks an astute mind is upon him.

“Tell me of the plains situation,” Brasidas says, his baritone ringing. 

“The captured Korkyrans have proven invaluable as Athenian fodder, but nothing much more than that. Mikiades claims that I still owe him money for Sybota, but I told him to send you a letter.”

“Yes, I can have the amount paid. What of the Athenians in Messenia? I ordered that country cleared.”

“It was meant to be cleared. All but the weakest force. You routed them?”

“Yes, easily. It brought the King to an uncomfortable situation.”

“Yes. But surely those Athenians would have simply been met in Attika eventually.”

“They would have. Better now, to simpler ends, than later, to no ends at all.”

“Is your wife going to attend the dinner?” Kallias says, likely thinking the whisper won’t carry. The reason this bench is my place in the Apella is because every whisper carries here. 

“Yes. She will.” The strategos has lost a little of his diplomacy in his tone. 

“I’d like to enjoy her, if you’d let me.”

I still, feeling every breath as it leaves me hollow. My husband decides to present me and the blades that protect me are still embedded in our living room floor. 

“Of course.”

I unceremoniously leave the room. My spun wool and scrolls drift to the floor, the only indication of my wake. 

\--------

I place myself very carefully. I’ve changed into my white chiton, the one I wear at home, without adornment or accessory. Seated in the carved wooden chair at the head of the table, my knees bent and my feet sitting just under me, waiting. I made sure his lunch was unprepared. I made sure we had no wine. 

I’m fucking furious. Even within the bounds of being my husband, he takes undue allowances.

It doesn’t take long for him to follow me here. It must have been quite the rock and the hard place: needing to placate a prince within your wife’s hearing. I wouldn’t know, but I imagine it to be quite the spot. 

“Kassandra…” he whispers as he tentatively walks towards me. 

“Get my name out of your mouth,” I slice back, tilting my head so it rests on my knees. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t-”

“Yes you did. You fully intended on making me a display.”

My legs are long and my chiton doesn’t quite cover them. I use this to my full advantage as they unfurl and I cross my ankles on his table, exposing my thighs. His glances only once, eyeing where the slit in the fabric sits, until he trains his eyes onto my face. 

“He’s a prince. I’m not in the position to deny him.”

“I think that’s a half truth. I think he assisted in your machinations for your position, and you owe him a debt.”

“How so, _vassilokore_?” he says with an edge. 

“Mikiades? Messenia? The Athenian force that you routed, an announcement that caused my uncle to gift me to you?”

“Kallias doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

“Oh, but I do. I know. You’re using the darling, likely striving, second prince of Korinth to solidify your own-”

“Stop.”

“-position and strengthen it beyond its current-”

“Stop.” Louder, more insistent.

“-trajectory in order to fully dispense with both the Agiad and the Eurypontid-.”

“Kassandra, stop!” he yells, throwing his fists at the table. I only pause, tilting my head a little. 

“How much does my uncle know of why this visit comes now?” 

“What?”

“Why is Kallias in Sparta now? Why is Messenia a consideration? Is Athens designed to try and take it?”

“Sometimes, only sometimes, you shock me enough to be glad that you are not Athenian yourself, Kassandra.”

“If I was Athenian, then you would have married me five years ago and I would never speak for fear of your fists.”

He flinches then, away from me and towards the front door. I don’t stop. I’m so, so angry with him. For all of the insults he has sent my way, whether personally, or through the hatred he holds of my family, I never thought he would risk my person. But now that he has that power, I’m not so sure.

“So share your wife with the man who holds your debt, and remember that your ambition was paid in fucking her.”

“Please stop, Kassandra. I won’t allow it. He won’t touch you, I swear it.”

“Said with a lying mouth and a curt mind.”

I stand, letting my hair muss above me and slinking slowly towards him. “Tell me why I don’t believe you,” I whisper, taking a hold of his chin. 

“I don’t know.”

“Tell me,” I growl, voice dangerous. 

“Because it would be easier for me to lie.”

I tap his cheek a little, where the beginnings of a beard needs shaving. 

“There’s the strategos Sparta needs so wholly that she would sacrifice a lamb.”

I walk away from him and towards the third bedroom, steeling myself for the evening ahead. 

\--------

“We welcome Prince Kallias of Kornith as our ally and friend. We hope that your visit to Sparta deepens our friendship, and the friendship between our two cities. United in war, united in a common cause. To the Peloponnese!”

Applause. Always applause. 

I take a gulp of wine. 

“Thank you, King Pleistarkhos of Sparta. My city is both humbled and alive with the continued efforts in Attika. Athens is our enemy, and with Sparta, we will attend to their gates before the next Gymnopaedia. As for my visit, I’m sure it will be incredibly satisfying, indeed.”

I feel his eyes on me, the film growing. Then, ever so lightly, the touch of the strategos’ fingertips against the back of my hand. The reminder of his promise to me. As much as it’s worth. We’re at home, where the prince requested to have this dinner held. He wanted to ensure I attended. 

Kallias sits and helps himself to meat and bread. 

“Alexios, tell me of your favourite sport.”

“Wrestling, definitely,” my brother answers without pause. “The physicality is freeing.”

“Yes, agreed. Do you oil?”

“Yes. I almost always have a jar with me for wrestling and… other things.”

“I like javelin myself,” Kallias says. “Throwing and entering a target. And yourself, Kassandra? What is your favourite sport? I hear women compete, here.”

“Short sword. Just as you find entering compelling, I find cutting off appendages to be just so.”

He doesn’t blanch. Maybe he’s stupid. Brasidas’ fingertips harden against my hand. 

“Are you any good?” the prince continues. “We could spar and I could beat you to submission.”

“You could certainly try.”

“Tell me of your father’s health,” Brasidas interrupts. “I hear he’s quite well?”

“Oh yes,” the prince replies, eyes drifting from my face to where my chest sits under my chiton. “The King is quite well.”

I take my final gulp of wine, emptying the container. Whispering into my husband's ear, I ask for his excuse for me to go to bed. I’ve had enough of this. 

“Of course, _vassilokore._ I will walk you.”

I just shake my head. “Enjoy the grave you’re digging, husband. Eventually one of these men will throw dirt on your face.”

I stand and walk from the table and into the house, finding the third bedroom open and mine. The basin is full of rose water, and I busy myself with my face and neck. Cleansing, cleaning, reminding myself that there is more to life than heat and dust.

“Kassandra, how glorious it is to be alone.”

My knives are still in the living room floor. 

“You can’t be here,” I reply, squaring my shoulders at him. “My husband-.”

“Gave me permission. It is customary that when you hold a man’s debts, you own his possessions until they are repaid.”

I’m backed against a wall, but I refuse to be cowed. As long as he doesn’t step towards me, I can try and get past him into the hallway.

Wait, no. I trained with my brother. I can use my fists. 

“It may be worth it, in the end.” He steps forward and I clench my hands. 

“And if it breaks the alliance? If Sparta leaves you for dead in the fields of Attika?”

“I am a prince. You are simply the wife of a military man.”

He takes another step forward. He’s within my range.

He lunges for me and I bring my right hand to his stomach, forcing him to double over. He recovers too soon, and I’m overcome with wine. His hands reach for the linen of my clothing and I find myself screaming, kicking, punching. Frenzied. 

Then as suddenly as he was on top of me, he was gone from me. Pulled back with strong hands and a firm grip. 

“I told you not to touch my wife, Kallias,” the strategos says, anger coursing through him. 

Kallias is deposited onto the ground on his feet, now looking several inches shorter. “You owe me money and she’s your possession, so I can take her as I like!”

“She is not. This is Sparta: to touch a woman without her consent is death for any man. Your father will not protect you from the fury of the Spartan King, her uncle.”

Kallias’ eyes jump between us, cowed and frightened. “The K-K-King?”

“Kassandra is an Agiad. Your father will find you strung up for touching her,” Brasidas thunders. 

“No, no, please. I- I’m sorry. I won’t-.”

“You will call off the debt and leave this city, now.”

Kallias just nods as Brasidas picks him up by the scruff of his neck and throws him from the room. I’m solidly rooted to the spot. Unable to move for the play that occured right under my nose. 

It’s an hour or so until the strategos returns, disheveled and tense.

“Kassandra, I’m sorry,” he whispers, sitting on the edge of my bed. I’d attempted sleep but instead found it illusive. 

“He was only here because you let him be.”

“I know. I should never have-. It won’t happen again.”

“No. What were the debts for?”

“What?”

“The debts. You played me as a piece on a board to repay them. I want to know what my safety is worth.”

“No, I told him that he couldn’t have you. It was him who decided to have you anyway.”

“Brasidas, you almost definitely encouraged him. I’m certain of it. Now I want to know why.”

He sighs, none of the usual fire in his eyes. They’re almost gentle, apologetic. His hand moves to touch me but I recoil from him, leaping away. 

“Try and get some sleep. I won’t go to the barracks tonight.”

He bows to me, to the waist, and leaves me to my darkened room.


	4. Chapter Four

“Now, I’ve heard you practicing the song which is fantastic. Your uncle leaving the dias and sitting by the priests will be your cue to start. You’ll be seated with Alexios and Brasidas.”

“Mater, I already know all this.”

“Just in case, lamb. Now you aren’t to take any mushrooms this year, do you hear me? It was dangerous enough for you last year, when the men took advantage. I don’t want to need to have hawk eyes on you this year.”

“Yes, mater.”

No, mater. 

Of course I was going to take some mushrooms: they were the best part of Hyacinthia. I spoke to Zeus last year, as his eyes came through from the fire and intoned riddles. Perhaps this year, I will speak to Hades. 

Not for the first time, I wish for someone to rescue me from my mother’s etiquette lessons. To save me from the drudgery that is Sparta’s traditions and the necessary instruction I have to endure simply due to luck of birth. Alexios learns statecraft while I learn how the way a person sits may denote their feelings. 

Mater is more forgiving than her own mother was. Gorgo used to almost pin me to a chair to keep my back straight and my chin up. A dandelion was used to ensure it: placing it just at the top of my forehead and if it fell, I would be required to repeat the lesson. Turns out it is difficult to both read and write with a flower preventing a turned down face. 

“Kassandra!” my mother yelps, banging the desk lightly.

“Yes?”

“Tell me what I just said.”

Oh, right. 

“Ahh, that Alexios will perform after me?”

Her lips thin and I know that I have it half right. I should probably assert myself a little more. She wanted her daughter to be a married woman, and here I am, at her desk as if I was a child. I stretch out my arms and yawn. The feeling is release: like caught steam under a large pot. 

“I’m going to go home, mater. I’ll meet you at the festival tonight.”

“But you haven’t-.”

“Yes, but I need to prepare things at home, too. Brasidas’ laurels, his chiton; you know? Wife things. I’ll see you tonight.”

I kiss her on her forehead and leave the house quickly, walking west. The sight is amazing. Hyacinthia seems to bring out the best in Sparta: if there is one thing that Spartans are partial to, it’s a doomed love story featuring a God who isn’t even one of our patrons. Zephyros blew the discus, but Apollo was the one who threw it. 

Flowers cover almost every surface: flashing, glinting, shining in such a jumbled mess of colour that the eye barely knows where to turn. Most are grown in the city specifically for the event, and there are still some being tied and laid out as I walk past them. I bend slowly, picking out a blue bloom with a yellow centre. My favourite colour, and this specimen is stunning. 

I’m still looking at it when I reach home and push the door open.

“Kassandra.”

I stop, my hand still on the door. I didn’t expect him to be home. He’s seated at the head of the table, a wine cup in hand. 

“Strategos,” I reply, closing the door behind me. “Trouble at the barracks?”

“Oh, you know. It’s quiet because the men are with their families for Hyacinthia. It was insisted that I spend it with mine.”

There’s a cup that Alexios made as a child. It’s poor quality, but it brings me a small, specific type of joy, and I know it’s here somewhere. I search each cupboard and finally lay my hands on it. I put the flower in it proudly, brightening the centre of the dining table. Brasidas watches me closely as I do it and continues to watch me as I light the braziers. The evening is close and the night air is threatening cold. 

“I have rites to perform tonight,” I say, making some kind of talk.

“Yes, I know. Compulsory attendance.”

I sit in front of him as he stands to put on his armour. My eyes flicker over his form, not lingering as his eyes do over mine. I have to keep reminding myself that he was forced on me. That any comradery I feel for him is false, borne from simply proximity and his specific talent for avoiding me. 

He starts with his chestplate, because of course he does. Fumbling a little with the ties, I curb my instinct to offer help. Too intimate, that. 

He’s a danger to my family. He’s a danger to my uncle. He’s a danger to Sparta. 

Next, he slips his pteruges around his lower waist, sliding it into its spot at the bottom of his chestplate. Red and gold: stark and shining against the darkness of his legs and the innocence of his wine-coloured chiton. They lift a little as he reaches further into the chest to retrieve his greaves. He turns then, to sit and put them around his calves. 

“Staring doesn’t become you, _vassilokore_.”

I shift my eyes up to his, and set my chin in a dare. “I was the one who was forced into this marriage: I may as well try and find joy where I can.”

He scoffs, half a laugh. His hands were empty and behind his back. Perhaps it’s cruel to remind him of the burden my uncle placed on both of us. 

He stands so he can tighten the straps, but there’s something odd about how he does it. Like it’s in slow motion; like he isn’t controlling it himself. He leans his hand against the front door frame almost for support. 

“Strategos?” I ask, unable to leave mild concern from my voice.

“It’s. It’s fine,” he struggles to reply. Then he stumbles to the side, towards the front door. Like a doll thrown. 

“Brasidas?” I whisper as I stand to make my way towards him. The smoke from the braziers chokes me slightly, trying to close my throat, but I swallow it down.

“Strategos?”

He startles from fright after I speak, eyes wide. Eyes frantic. Something’s wrong.

“Kass…”

I walk towards him, slowly and what I hope is non-threateningly. He cowers away from me anyway, clutching his own arms for dear life.

“Strategos… it’s okay.”

It was obviously the wrong thing to say. His eyes go wide with terror, visibly shaking. “No. You’re here to kill me!”

I stop my movements, standing very still. 

“If I was to kill you, I wouldn’t do it on the night where we’re both meant to preside.”

He shakes his head violently. “I’ve worked too hard for my life for you to take it.”

“Brasidas…”

“No! You’ve received everything! I had to work for everything!”

The smoke. I turn my head to the fires I lit, their smell filling the room like a wooded glade. Earthy, unusual.

“What was in the braziers, husband?”

“Your uncle took everything from me but I clawed it back!”

I huff at him, giving up on the question. I didn’t light all of the braziers and the ash is cool enough to touch in the cold ones. I don’t recognise the substance held within it: a green plant that I don’t know. Perhaps it’s what they do at the festival: put herbs into the fires so that people see the Gods. I prefer mushrooms, others prefer smoke. 

I look back to him. He’s rolling on the balls of his feet as he crouches on the floor, head in his hands. He’s in an incredibly vulnerable state. He doesn’t have any reflexes, no weapons, no idea what is happening around him. 

This is my chance. To pay back his presumption. For capturing me and holding me into wifedom. For threatening my uncle, my family, my city. For the disrespect he shows my brother, the heir. For the easy way he pushed my father out of his deserved life after years and years of service to this city’s armies. For his rude tongue and dishonourable words, I should kill him. 

The knives are still embedded in the floor, where we both left them as our reminder. I could simply reach out and grasp one. My shoulders flex under my chiton, subconsciously preparing for the swift pounce that will silence Brasidas of Sparta. 

I turn to reach for the knife, my fingers trying to slide across the hilt of the one closest to me. Easy and sleek, like it was made for this task within my hands. A wooden handle, for a simple grip. Iron for the metal, for a quick slice. A nick, just there. Just where his blood flows. And I could blame the braziers. I could blame them.

But they still choke me, and I find my mind unworking. The smoke is only in the top half of the air, and I’m standing right in its flow as it escapes the house. From far away, we must look like a section of burning wheat as a field blazes from blight. The warning signal to the next town over that trouble is coming. 

I can’t reach the knife. I can’t place it in my hand. The smoke has made me weak and as my mind turned to how I could force the knife to escape the wood, I forgot that I had to reach it in the first place. 

I fall right on him. I fall right into his lap, his frenzied hands slowed down now. 

“I didn’t… I couldn’t… put them out.”

“It’s okay, strategos. Just sleep.”

“No. No, my _vassilokore_.”

But the smoke continues to leak from the house, the white mingling with the late afternoon air. I could see it from my lounged position. I could see, but I could barely think at all. Only the weight of his arms on my shoulder and knowing the poison is working is keeping me awake. I want to sleep. I want to be released. 

He presses harder on my arms, a lead weight. 

“Strategos?” I whisper.

He doesn’t answer.

“Strategos?” I say again, trying, fighting, to stay awake. It was perfect. It was easy. Someone poisoned the fires. Someone placed… something. 

“Brasidas?” I say again, using the hand that sits on his leg to poke and pinch him. 

I guess whoever did this thought I’d be at my mother’s and father’s. Or I’d be with my brother. Or already at the festival. Jokes on them. Jokes on all of them. 

No. _No._

I refuse. 

I try and roll off him, taking a few attempts, but eventually I see the stars as they sit above us. Beautiful, twinkling, blessing us. The outside air is soothingly cold. Only one thought drives me: that the outside will save us. The night air will save us. 

I don’t think about how this is the easy way to let him die. I can’t let him die like this, just as he wouldn’t let me die like this. 

Even seeing the stars has cleared my head a little.

So I slap his face, hard, sending my hand print to his cheek. He blinks awake, resigned. 

“Move, Brasidas,” I groan, trying to push his bulk out the door. 

“ _Vassilo_ …”

“Move!” I yelp, slapping him again.

He grimaces but nods a little, trying to raise himself up and failing. It’s unceremonious, and ridiculous, but I push his arms close to his sides and simply make him roll so his head at least is out the door. So his head at least has access to air. Then I slump down next to him again, panting. 

And the last thing I remember is his whispered words telling me to stay awake, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to let him tell me what to do. 

\--------

“Someone tried to kill you.”

“Someone? We both know who it was.”

I shake my head. “He wouldn’t risk harming me.”

“He risked harming you when he married you to me.”

“Was the suggestion his?”

“Which suggestion?”

“To go home to your family for Hyacinthia.”

“No, the insistence was from your father, actually.”

I blanch, but the strategos shakes his head. “Now he _definitely_ wouldn’t risk you, Kassandra. I think he just wants me to try harder.”

He looks down at his fists as he says it, the burns angrily weeping. Once it was clear that I wasn’t going to wake up, he essentially stormed our house and attempted to extinguish the fires with his hands. Well, his hands and the various blankets and rugs we keep around the place. The evidence of his brash display is here on his skin. Bandaged now, but still weeping. He’s lucky he didn’t burn the house down. 

I don’t know how to reply to that. My father is a romantic, a softie who essentially prioritises the happiness of the people he loves above all else. It’s why he and my mother are such an elegant match: she’s stone, hard, while he’s the spring grass under your feet after rain. 

I splay my fingers over my knees, stretching from the close seated position I’d taken up at my parent’s house. My brother insisted, apparently. We were to recover there, where we could be looked after. Me, mainly. Alexios still hates Brasidas with passion. The strategos is seated too, on the bed as I sit on the floor in front of him. Sleep is what he needs for healing, and Sparta knows that he needs his hands to command troops. 

“I don’t think my uncle is capable of such an act,” I whisper. 

“And I think you’re blinded by loyalty.”

“I know,” I reply, resigned. This has been our circular conversation for about an hour. “Maybe if you didn’t insist on the terms for war, he wouldn’t feel threatened enough to poison you.”

He thins his mouth, knowing that I’m right. “You don’t understand. I needed to protect my men.”

“I think we both know that your terms were equal parts selfish and selfless.”

“No, I only thought of my men.”

“I still have Kallias of Kornith fresh in my mind, strategos.”

“And I told you that I was sorry for that.”

“Are you sorry that this act almost killed me? Or you?”

His face changes. It hardens into a deep frown and his eyes strike me a little. Something’s shifted.

I rest my head on my knees, bringing them up towards me. It frightens me, honestly. It was so easy for someone to almost end us, me as well as him. For some reason it never occured to me that I could be collateral damage. The Agiad wouldn’t risk one of their own, but, of course, Brasidas thinks they could. 

“Do you really think it was Pleistarkhos?” I mumble into my own skin, face obscured by my crossed arms. 

Light as a feather, I feel the whisper of his breath along my forehead. He’s leant in close, worried for who hears. 

“I’m sorry, _vassilokore_ , but I do.”

I only nod. He has reason to lie, but I don’t think he is. 

“Do you want to go home?” I ask, lifting my face to his. “Do you think you’ll be safe there?”

He searches my face, as if convincing himself of something. I can see fear in his eyes and his mannerisms: fields full of enemies tremble before him, but he was almost brought down by the innocuous act of his wife lighting the braziers. Realisation mounts, and I find myself shaking my head at him.

“It wasn’t me, Brasidas. I swear it to you.”

My thoughts are confirmed when he doesn’t immediately reply, just continues searching my face. Unwilling and unthinking, I reach out to put my hand on his knee.

“I swear it, strategos.”

After a beat, he withdraws his search. “Yes, I think I’d prefer to be at home.”

\--------

I don’t light the braziers that evening, so we have no light after the sun has gone down. Hyacinthia is a distant memory, and my mother is still upset that I missed the rites. It’s how they found us: I was late for my part. Not many Spartans celebrated that night after the news spread. 

“Hold still,” I say harshly, wetting the bandage in order to remove it. “The priests said that it needs air.”

“The priest can burn in Tartarus for all I- ow!” he yelps, withdrawing his hand from me. I look at him, channeling my mother, with my palm up expectantly. For one of Sparta’s leading minds, he sure can’t handle pain. 

“Tell me about Athens, it might distract you.”

“Athens will, ow, will lose,” he says through clenched teeth. I smirk at him. 

“So convinced? How will you guarantee it?”

“I can’t.”

“Oh, don’t give me that. You guarantee every result. Tell me how you’ll set this one.”

“No, I can’t tell you.”

“Right,” I reply, elongating the vowel. “You know how my uncle was King at ten years old.”

“I am aware.”

“Well, one of his regents, Pausanias, was sentenced to death. Do you know why?”

“Yes.”

“Well, let me tell you,” I reply, ignoring him with eyes focused on his hands. “Because he accepted a bribe from the Persians to withdraw Sparta during the last war. Just for some gold, he lost his life. Doesn’t seem like very much, does it? So I wonder how much it will cost you to ensure Perikles does the same?”

“I’m not going to tell you, Kassandra.”

“It’s what I would do.”

“And it’s a habit of the Agiad to be executed for exactly that. It’s too obvious: you may as well paint your corruption on the western side of the house.”

“But that’s the thing, isn’t it? You don’t paint it, even though you do it, so someone is forced to murder you in your own home, and try to frame me for it.”

I stop fiddling with the cloth and inspect the blisters closely. They aren’t as angry as they were, which is good, but he shouldn’t use them-.

“What did you say?” he whispers, interrupting my train of thought. 

“I think your hands are looking as good as we could expect.”

“No, before. Do you think it was meant to look like you did it?”

“Well, you did think it was me. And it’s neat, isn’t it? Everyone knows how much I hated you.”

“I promised that I would keep you safe,” he whispers.

I look at his face then, staring right into his eyes. Resignation. The emotion I hate the most. I swallow the injustice bubbling in my throat.

He’s still a danger to my family. He’s strived to bring them down for years and years. And his conversation with Kallias indicated to me that he planned the beginning of this war ever since Korinth first asserted themselves against Korkyra and began it. He might even see himself as the inheritor of Hellas. The sharpest way to inflict pain on my uncle would be to quietly dispose of me, but, instead, his hands weep. 

I don’t reply. I just breathe slowly and deliberately until the squall in my chest comes to a standstill. He’s still holding my gaze, and I hear his own breath hitch slightly. I break the stare. 

“Let them air, I have to go and speak to my uncle.”

“Kassandra-!”

“No, no, not about this. He wants me to be Sparta’s envoy to the Olympics. I just have to iron out details for him.”

“If you’re going to Elis, then so am I,” he says, stern and authoritative. 

“No, strategos. Not with your hands how they are. It’ll be fine.”

“I’m not taking no for an answer, _vassilokore_.”

I squint my eyes at him. In the months since we married, he’s never asserted his position as my kyrios. I thought he wasn’t going to.

“Are you ordering me?”

He has the sense of self preservation to look sheepish. “No. But I’ll simply follow you through the mountains, if it came to it.”

Again, the quiet hitch in my chest. 

“Fine.”


	5. Chapter Five

Holes. Well, weakness, at least, before part of the fabric becomes riddled. Worth darning now, even in the low light of the fire. The bugs were making their presence known, and I make a game out of ignoring them. Just how far could I go without swatting at them? Just how out of my mind could the itch make me before I cracked?

I never really find out, because the strategos casually shoos away the most troublesome of them.

“Surely it’s too dark to sew?” he asks, seating himself by the fire, feeding it a little. 

“Just ask me how annoyed I am that there’s a hole in this peplos, before asking me how far I will go to sew it shut.”

I hear his face creak in a grin. “Let me see it.”

He’s reaching over then, for both the boned needle and the cloth. I look sideways at him, tilting my head away from his in surprise. “Don’t pretend that you know how to sew.”

“I’m a helot, remember?” he says, taking it from me. “My mother was a house helot and needed to know how to sew fine fabric. She taught me.”

“You never talk about your family,” I venture.

“That’s because we’re always talking about yours.”

I watch as he performs a quick invisible stitch, taking the patch from the back and blending it with the fabric of the peplos.

“You’ve been holding out on me, strategos,” I say, unable to take my eyes off his hands as he works. Perhaps this is a therapy for him: he’s been unable to do much else with the skin still so angry, but the needle poses little threat. 

“You never asked, vassilokore.”

“Then tell me something else.”

He sighs, impatient. Perhaps concentrating. 

“Tell me of your father.”

“He was larger than me, and used to be the one that everyone needed to move the carts that inevitably got bogged in the river. My older brother looks the most like him, except for the beard. My father never wore one.”

“Do you get your sharp tongue from him?” I ask, trying for conspiratory. Failing, because he looks up at me with sadness in his eyes. 

“I don’t know, he died when I was four. I don’t remember ever hearing him speak.”

He turns back to the sewing to save me offering him comfort. He doesn’t want it and I don’t know how to give it. Instead I turn to the fire, stoking it to give him more light. The mountains whisper to us as the wind flows, accompanying us to Elis. There is a copse of men not far from our own camp, Krypteia assigned to my person. Brutal men, the best of the agoge sent to be the King’s police. Alexios will join them when he reaches eighteen, as the heir. It’s a rite of passage. My opinion of them being here is different to Brasidas’: he fought tooth and nail for his own men to accompany us, but my uncle refused. I am Agiad, he said, therefore I needed royal protection. Brasidas doesn’t trust them, and that’s why they’re camped away from us. 

They could slit his throat as he sleeps, but I know that he doesn’t plan on sleeping. 

“When I sit in the Apella, I used to pretend to spin,” I say. “It made the men more comfortable with me, especially the foreign ones. I was simply an inconsequential pet. I was never really good at spinning, but in having to pretend to spin, I actually developed a talent. I can spin the finest yarn among my own circles whenever we deign to compare. Perhaps this is the same.”

“What do you mean?” he mumbles, the needle in his mouth. 

“I mean that maybe if I pretend not to hate you, then perhaps the ease of friendship will come instead.”

“I think there’s a certain type of kinship that comes from being joined in an attempted murder. Creates a certain bond.”

I tilt my head a little, face impassive. “I don’t think I want to kill you anymore, strategos,” I say simply. 

“Is this needle poisoned?” he asks, eyes going wide with mocking.

I smirk at him. “I guess I’m sorry for drawing a knife on you. And I want to thank you for not returning the gesture.”

“You’re welcome, vassilokore.”

We sit in silence for a while as he finishes the repair. The thought has been circling in my mind since the smoke almost killed us. Unwelcome, but the type of thought that I eventually turned my mind to with the vigour of a panther unhinging its jaw. He didn’t let me die. He could have. It would have been very easy for him to dispatch of his annoying wife, the barrier between himself and the Agiad, especially with war coming. I’m in his way as he asserts his war plans. I’m privy to the way he positioned his foreign equivalents to begin the war in the first place. I have enough information to send him to Hades for treason. But it’s not just that he didn’t let me die. I haven’t let the sword fell his head either. 

He finishes the peplos, spitting on the tie so it holds, and passes it back to me. I finger the fabric, feeling his expert work. He leans back on his arms, eyes on the fire.

“You aren’t going to sleep tonight, are you?” I ask, rolling the garment.

“No, but I do think you should go to bed, Kassandra. We’ve got a full day’s ride tomorrow.”

“So you’ll sleep in the saddle?”

“Only if you ride pillion, to hold me up,” he says, smirking at the stars. 

I lie back onto my bedroll, following his gaze to the heavens. Thinking about Elis, about the Agiad, and about how much easier life might be with more friends than foes.

“Can you answer something for me?” he whispers into the dark.

“Depends what it is.”

He pauses, waiting. 

“Okay, yes,” I concede.

“Did you only hate me because your uncle told you to?”

My immediate response is to defend, defend, defend, but, of course, that would prove his point. Since Hyacinthia, my thoughts have become blurred. Muffled. Confused. I will be loyal to my family until my dying breath, but Brasidas of Sparta sacrificed the hands he needed to do battle in order to rescue me from the poison meant for him. His tongue is cruel. His words are disrespectful. 

But, when it was anyone else, I didn’t care. Other men have joked with Alexios, especially as he grows, and I don’t try to slit their throats. Other men have become strategoi and I didn’t immediately bay for their blood. 

You can hate a person without being able to verablise why. But I was really struggling to remember my own thoughts as they differed from my uncle’s. Was it truly so difficult? 

But then the answer was easy, after only a minute’s thought.

“The hatred was my own, but the lead was his,” I say, almost a whisper. Quiet, embarrassed by the admission. Unable to think for myself.

He doesn’t reply, so I drift off to sleep.

\--------

I like watching as the countryside changes. Sparta’s landscape is so, well, sparse: rocky and only the odd flower. That’s why we value them so much for our festivals. The softness of a bloom contrasts well to the red of our blood and the harshness of the war dances that encompass most of our culture. But here, in Arkadia and as it turns into Elis, the hills become easier for horses to navigate; the grass grows longer; the trees sprout closer together. I think the shift came north of the range, with Taygetos far to our south. I turn slightly in the saddle, trying to pick out the mountain from all the others. It’s too hazy to see, and I frown slightly. 

“Something the matter?”

“No. Just getting a feel for the landscape.”

“We’ll stop soon: I’m sure the men could do with a break for lunch.”

I nod as he passes me, his large stallion trotting ahead. He’s clipped his red cloak to his saddle, leaving his armoured back bare. No helm, no thigh guards, he has his own way of doing things that is ever so slightly to the left of how Sparta dictates things should be done. Confident upon his horse, like he owns the road. 

I lose sight of him as he rounds the curve, and my eyes instead turn back to the countryside and the task that awaits us in Elis. 

I am to preside as a judge, unusual for a woman, but I am also to represent Sparta at the dinners, the banquets, the feasts. And, if Sparta won the honour of Olympic champion, I would award them their laurels. Simple. 

My husband would accompany me to each event, he likely working his politics just as I worked mine. He’s to act as my _kyrios_ as foreigners expect. Sparta was strange within Hellas: not only was our military might essentially unchallenged, but my city treats women differently. Each man I meet with likely greet Brasidas first, and my father had asked him personally to ensure that he defers to me. It was a small request, but one pater knows is important to me. I get disrespected enough in the Apella so anything to temper foreigners in a foreign country is welcome.

“Here is good for a spot to eat,” Brasidas says, dismounting. I try not to watch him as his leg tends over the horse. 

I dismount too, needing a creek. 

“I spotted a stream just down the hill,” I call to him, passing my reins to one of the men. “I’ll be back shortly.”

“We must accompany you,” one of the men says, his arm reaching for his spear.

“I assure you, I can handle myself alone.”

“No, Agiad. We’re to-.”

“Let her go,” Brasidas calls, taking bread out of his saddlebags. “Ten minutes, and then I come to find you, agreed?” he says, looking at me, asserting his will.

“Agreed,” I reply flippantly, reaching for my rags. 

Gods, travelling with only men on the road was tiresome. No privacy, no inches, especially with what are no doubt strict orders from their King. 

I reach the stream without incident and begin my washing my face and neck. It’s hot, the summer at its peak, without any of the alpine air that we take for granted at home. It’s not even windy, just a whisper of a breeze.

A point to my throat. Because what would a jaunt to the stream with a pair of rags get me if not a threat?

“Stand up, pretty little thing,” says the rough voice. He’s already drawn blood because I refuse to stand. 

_Kassandra, died proving a point._

“I’m too busy to stand,” I say, shaking out my hands of the stream water. In the action, I graze along my thigh for the knife I keep there. Brasidas pried them from the floor and gave them back to me, trusting, for some reason, that I wouldn’t use them against him. 

The knife sharpened, drawing up towards my ear and taking my blood with it.

“Thales, look,” his companion says, reaching for my red linen cloak. “This is high quality. She might have jewellery on her.”

I do, but it’s in my pack, strapped fastidiously to Brasidas’ horse.

He’s going to be very annoyed at me for this. 

“I’ll make you men a deal. I won’t scream, alerting my men who are camped just up the hill, who will run you down and cut you to pieces, if you just leave now. Understood?”

I use the look they share to strike. My knife comes free easily, the wooden handle made for me as the iron slices the first man’s face right open, revealing the red beneath. I turn to the other man, his weapon a kopis of almost intimidating length. I decide that I can’t match him, but I can run. 

I throw my knife at his chest and hear it batted away as I sprint up the hill. 

“Strategos!” I yell, my lungs filling with the warm air. “Brasi-!”

“Gotcha,” the second man says, pointing his kopis into my back, hand over my mouth. He drags me towards a series of shrubs just north of the stream.

“Just give me your jewellery, and I won’t hurt you,” he whispers into my ear. 

“I don’t have any,” I try to say against his hand, my mouth mumbling. 

Brasidas would have heard me. He would have been listening for it. 

But it doesn’t matter, in the end. I have two knives, and the idiot restraining me isn’t restricting my arms. 

I reach for my waist, the paring knife lodged in my belt. Grasping it tightly, I twist quickly and just enough that if the kopis was to be driven toward, it would only slightly wound me. Then, using my strength, I push my small knife up and into the man’s neck. He drops like a sack of wheat, arms reserved for the gasping sounds coming from his throat. I fall into a sitting position, scrambling away from him as he drowns in his blood. 

My back hits the trunk of a tree and I stay there, unable to tear my eyes away. 

Is this what it would have been like if I’d succeeded in killing my husband? The slow coughing; the drowning, the spluttering, as life was stripped from him? Did I wish this on him not once, but twice?

I can hear him yelling my name, almost tauntingly. The echo of the voice reminding me of what I almost did. And not even my choice. I know, strikingly clear, now, that my uncle’s machinations were designed for me to kill Brasidas of Sparta. It was never my choice. It was his. 

“Kassandra!”

I don’t call back. He’ll find me eventually. I was dragged here. 

I look down at my hands and the blood on them. I don’t know if it’s mine. 

It could have been his. 

“Kass! Please, Kass!”

The man lies still. Death wasn’t a just reward for robbing someone. 

“Kassandra, oh thank the Gods.”

His hands are on my face, my neck, my skin. I eventually focus my eyes towards his, seeing the dark brown of a rained-out yard. 

“Strategos,” I whisper, reaching for him. 

“Are you injured anywhere else?” he replies, lifting my chin slightly to see the trail of blood across my neck.

“I don’t think s-.”

“Kassandra, they removed the bottom of your ear,” he whispers, and I hear his anger. Almost propriety. Almost venomous. “Was it just the two men?”

“Yes,” I reply, reaching up to my ear. Sure enough, the lobe has been cut off. I’m not sure how I don’t feel it. 

The way he’s looking at me is strange.

“I’m okay, strategos. I promise.”

“Your uncle will execute me for this, vassilokore.”

“He could try,” I reply, eyes straining shut, tone joking. I bring the heels of my hands to my eyes, forcing blackness into them. Then, ever so lightly, I feel the gentle caress of his fingers on the back of my neck. Soothing, calming, designed to make me still. 

“He could try,” he repeats, but with more resignation. 

We stay like that for longer than I care to admit, but eventually he takes my hands and we walk up the hill to the horses. I’m still shaken to my core. Not because of the attack: I can handle myself and I don’t fear men. But the blood, and the coughing. I’m trembling.

“Up,” Brasidas says, gesturing for my hand. I look between his hand and his face, shaking my head. “I insist, Kass. Please.”

I’m getting very good at relenting to his will. I take his hand and mount his horse, and he mounts behind me. He’s right, but I’d never tell him that. I’m too shaken to direct my own horse. 

“They wanted jewels,” I say. “They saw the quality of my cloak and knew I’d have trinkets with me.”

“Then take it off,” he replies, sending his horse forward and me leaning back into him. “You don’t need it in this weather, anyway. And there is enough red around you.”

“But it’s the sign of my family.”

“So take it off, vassilokore.”

I don’t object when he reaches around and removes the clips. It falls to my hips and stays there, lending a distance between us as we ride north. Elis is still a day away, and we’ll camp in the mountains again tonight. 

“I’m sorry that I wasn’t there, Kassandra.”

“I handled it.”

“Even so. It’s a horrible thing.”

“I didn’t know that that’s how a knife killed a man,” I admit quietly. His arms are strong around my waist and it’s a comfort, rather than a cage. Weight. 

“Would you shy from me if I shadowed you the whole time we were in Elis?”

Yes. His constant presence, his curt words as they whip, his ownership. 

No. His quick thoughts, his gentle manner, the surety of his protection. 

Elis has the protection of the Olympic treaty, but I should have been safe in my own home and wasn’t.

“No, strategos.”

He clicks his tongue, and his horse canters forward.

\--------

The first dinner is uneventful. Actually, most of Elis was uneventful. It was only after Sparta won the wreath and the delegates let a little too loose at the subsequent banquet that things became a little trickier. 

Two things to know about me: I have never been a conquest. I’ve never had a person pursuing me with the expressed goal of bedding me. Brasidas came to me with his hands empty, and I understand now that he wished for this marriage about as much as I did. So that’s number one. 

The second thing is that this has left me with the distinct inability to understand when men overstep their bounds with me. My acceptance that I was now simply off limits because of both my husband and my uncle and hence it never really even occurs to me that any man would try. 

But one man basically followed me from event to event in order to compliment me, send me daring looks, and sometimes even touch me. 

Brasidas decided to make friends with him. 

“What’s on the menu tonight, Athenian?” the strategos asks before Alkibiades can get a word in. 

“Spartan pride,” the Athenian replies, raking his eyes over me. I ignore him. 

“I thought spiced pears sounded better. Does that sound good to you, Kassandra?”

“Very good,” I reply, still mainly ignoring them. I am watching the fire dancers from my raised position on the dias, the darkness dramatically framing the athleticism on display.

“I’ll get them for you, then,” he says as he stands, gesturing to the white haired man next to him. But Alkibiades stays put, refusing to stand.

“Some for me, too, please Brasidas.”

The strategos thins his mouth at me, but I send him a small smile. I’m sure nothing arwy can occur between him leaving and him coming back. 

“Tell me about yourself, Kassie,” the Athenian says, leaning towards me.

“My name is Kassandra, for one.”

“And for two? Perhaps a bath?”

I ignore him. I’ve learnt over the past week to ignore him. 

“Tell me about your marriage to Brasidas.”

“No.”

“No? Why ever not. Such a beautifully formed man. So much promise behind closed doors.”

I continue to ignore him. 

“Oh, or do you not know? Is it not _that_ kind of marriage? I thought Spartans prided themselves on their strong and continuing partnerships? Has he not even taken you yet?”

I ignore him still. I won’t give him an inch, but I’d happily throw him under the bus when he inevitably fronts the Apella in some kind of position. His mother is Perikles’ cousin and I know he holds ambition for Athenian command. He and Brasidas might even face each other across the battlefield.

“Not everyone can rise to the position of strategos without letting someone between their legs. Brasidas managed it. I see that you have not.”

His easy demeanour stiffens slightly, but his face is rigid to the slight smile he’s been wearing all week. So I’m close in my guess. 

“So you aren’t fucking him then? I may have a go, if you don’t mind. He’s built like a-.”

“I don’t mind,” a lie, “but I’m sure he would. He doesn’t have a penchant for striving men.”

“Oh, I’ve heard the rumours. Why do all the men sleep together in the barracks if they aren’t fucking each other?”

“I’m sure some of them are. Sparta doesn’t care, as long as they protect their left in the phalanx.”

“So Brasidas is a saint, is he?”

“Brasidas is Sparta’s Strategos, and you’d take care to remember that, Athenian.”

I’ve leant forward, my teeth bared to him. His gaze flickers between my eyes and my mouth, calculating. I’d have no hesitation to swallow him whole. 

Brasidas chooses this moment to return. 

“Kassandra,” he says, passing me a plate piled with meat and delicacies. 

“Thank you, Brasidas.”

“Ever the giving husband, the Agiad was just telling me how generous you are, Brasidas,” Alkibiades starts. “More than just the meat on her plate.”

Brasidas turns his eyes to me, startled, and I give him a pleading expression. 

I turn from them and towards my other side, the performance has shifted from the fire dancers to the gentle song of a small boy and his accompanying lyre. It’s stunningly beautiful.

“Of course, I don’t have to take her word for it,” I hear Alkibiades whisper. 

That blasted squirm in my chest. 

“You could show me, strategos, just how generous you can be.”

I breathe through it, focusing on the song.

“But, of course, I can be generous, too.”

I try to stop listening. Alkibiades could be an important contact for Brasidas. He could be a part of his plans, already set in motion. How Brasidas will guarantee the Attika plains for Sparta. Or, perhaps, he’s just enjoying the attention. 

I eat my plate in silence, blocking out their conversation completely.

\--------

It’s late. I’m tired, the heaviness of the golden plate necklace that was Brasidas’ wedding present to me dragging me down. I had to wear it because it hid the angry red mark caused by the bandit’s knife. I don’t like to think about what happened on the mountainside. 

My steps are slow as I walk to our apartments. Larger than our house, the leader of Elis held us in high esteem and gave us the best view across the games. There are four bedrooms total, two internal bathrooms including a bath the size of our living room at home. I want to sink beneath it, but I refuse to ask the slaves to water and heat it. Not in front of Brasidas, anyway. I know he feels funny about it. 

As I reach them, one of the krypteia opens the door for me and I tell him to not let anyone except the strategos into the apartment.

“He’s already here, Agiad,” he explains.

“Then let no one else in,” I reply, hiding my surprise. I’d left him at the table, taking the invitation of one of the wives to view her library. I’d expected him to be later returning than I was.

I lock the door behind me anyway, hearing the click as the latch falls into place.

I let my cloak go to the floor, as well as the hair clips: anything that felt like it bound me. They clatter to the ground, and I’ll pick them up tomorrow. The basin in the bathroom is already full with rose water, and I rub it behind my ears and through my hair.

“Kassandra, I thought you were going to sleep at the library.”

He’s perfectly startled me, and his grin confirms that it was on purpose. He’s sitting in the cold bath, his hair wet and his shoulders peeking out of the water. Rude.

“You know better,” is all I reply, bringing the linen cloth to the water to wipe down my shoulders. I wish I could take off the peplos.

“The water is tepid, good for cooling off from the day.”

“Yes, I imagine that you need _cooling off_ ,” I say with a little bit of a barb. 

His grin falters a little. “Just get in, it’ll be better than the basin.”

He just stares at me in my hesitation. I’d been _longing_ to use the bath. To use the oils that were provided, to swim in rose petals, to lose the sweat of the day with almost no work at all. 

“Did you fill it yourself?” I ask with sudden clarity.

“Yes,” he replies easily. “I know that’s why you haven’t used it, and I figured that it was our last night here and that you’d been pining, so I filled it for you.”

“That would have taken you hours.”

“It did, yes. I gave my apologies at the feast just after you, in fact.”

“No…” I whisper.

“Yes…” he whispers back, the sound travelling across the room. 

“You’re not allowed to be nice to me, Brasidas.”

“But I thought we were friends.”

“So you’d fill a bath for Andreas? Or Timon? Or any of your friends?”

“No, but I’d happily break my back filling it for my wife. Now I must insist that you get in.”

Every fibre of my being wants to deny him. It’s the oppositional defiance that has become part of my armour, especially to him. It was forged over years, but I can already see the cracks forming.

“Turn around,” I say, twisting my fingers in the accompanying gesture.

“I’ve seen you naked before, Kassandra.”

“Turn - around.” 

He puts up his hands in deference, shifting so his back was towards the centre of the bath. I watch him a little, his shoulders flex as the water laps at him. Alkibiades is right: he’s a sight. 

I ease into the water after discarding my peplos, the blood red fabric pooling close to where he’d left his chiton. The water is glorious: so much better than the river at home. Sparta has no baths like this: just tubs when you can sit and have water dumped on your head. My mother partakes, I do not. I let myself float a little, loosening my muscles and relaxing my face. Eventually I go under, closing my eyes and feeling the currents wash over me. 

“Can I turn around yet?”

“No,” I reply, laugh in my voice. 

He smirks at me as he turns, eyes lit. “Is it to your satisfaction?”

“It’s amazing, but it could be warmer,” I say, facetious. 

“Your wish is my action, vassilokore.”

He stands, walking up the stairs from the bath and towards a low seated brazier on the other side of the room. I try not to stare, even if it is simply so he can’t catch me staring. He pulls a cauldron from above the brazier and brings it over to the bath. 

“Hop back for a second,” he says, and I follow his direction before he pours the boiling water into the bath. It languorously moves through the cooler water, caressing my muscles until I feel like I might drown in here. 

“Tell me a secret,” I say, rubbing my face with my hands. He hasn’t taken his eyes off me since he re-entered the water, and I’m fumbling a little under his gaze.

“Why?” he asks simply.

“Because friends tell each other secrets.”

“Only if you’ll tell me one in turn.”

I nod, and he looks almost disappointed. Like he’d hoped that I would deny him. 

“Okay. I… hate olives.”

“No you don’t, I see you eating them all the time.”

“And I hate them.”

“But you planted olive trees on the eastern side of the house!”

“And I hate them. A man can do something and hate it, just as he can love something and avoid it.”

“Then tell me a food you like, because I’ve been putting olives in everything.”

“I like asparagus.”

“But that’s so hard to grow.”

“Aren’t you royalty? Aren’t I Sparta’s leading tactician? I say we just buy some.”

I laugh at him. He’s ridiculous. “Okay, no olives.”

“Now you, vassilokore. Tell me a secret.”

I don’t really know what to say. How flippant do I make it? I could change the whole tone of the conversation into something else.

“I used to beat my brother in strategy, but then my uncle forced me to purposely lose to bolster Alexios’ claim to the throne.”

He stares at me, voiceless. So I continue.

“He then made me attend the Apella, asking me to seem visibly lesser, more feminine, even though it was only my mind that held off the knives of Pleistoanax and his conspirators when they attempted their coup. I was the one who found the plot, and my brother received the credit. I received no recognition. And still, I continued to spy for my uncle, believing he was the only thing standing between us and oblivion, until he married me to you. I haven’t attended the Apella for him since.”

Thank the Gods for the bath, because then it isn’t immediately obvious that I’m crying. My tears spread, the months since the wedding leaking from me. The undue hatred; the emotional charge; the way I thought that I was fighting for my life. It was lies. My life means so little to the King of Sparta that he would risk me in a marriage with his political enemy, risk me in a room full of poisoned smoke, risk me every time a man walked into the Apella and saw me spying. I wasn’t safe; I was just needed. 

The water ripples as he gently comes towards me. I can’t take it. I can’t abide his gentleness: it might break me completely. 

“I’m sorry, Kassandra. I’m sorry that you have to endure it.”

I feel his thumb on my cheek, collecting tears. “What’s to endure?” I say, wretchedly. “My conditions are better than most.”

“Maybe materially. But to be used as a pawn is awful for anyone.”

I lean into his hand as it cups my chin. I feel ridiculous. I should never have started the game.

“Can I tell you something?” he whispers, the words too intimate. “Pleistarkhos was the one who initially sponsored me. But I wanted to go home. I was sick of Spartans and their presumption. They threw rotten eggs, cabbage, all manner of things at me. So I gave up.”

I hiccough a little, and feel his hand become a little stronger on my jaw. “I didn’t know that,” I whisper. 

“A secret for a secret,” he says. “Now, tell me the food you hate the most.”

I laugh a little. Nervously. Unsure. “I can’t stand trout.”

He smiles a little, so close to me. “Then we’ll never have trout in our house.”

The feel of him is almost intoxicating, just as it was the night we married. I’m so ready to be swept away in his touch on my hips, no doubt just as sure as the touch on my chin. I want to reach in, close the space, unheeded. 

But I can’t. There is too much between us. Too many things unresolved. The air has shifted, and I tear my eyes from him. I know he’s going to be disappointed, because I know he feels the same way I do about this. 

“We’re heading home tomorrow. Perhaps we should go to bed.” I turn, moving back to the stairs of the bath. I don’t ask him to turn around, and nor does he. I can only hold the scrunched mess of my peplos to me as I look back at him. “Thank you for the bath, strategos.”

“You’re welcome, vassilokore.”


	6. Chapter Six

Tell me again whether the apartment with the four bedrooms and two baths was worth it. 

Tell me again how easily I spoke and mingled and eased myself through the politicians of Hellas without inciting a war.

Tell me again how wonderfully trite I was, how easily swayed, how horribly inefficient with a blade.

All my mother’s words, spoken from her mouth when we returned from Elis. She was horrified that I’d been maimed, calling for the heads of not only my husband, as we thought, but also the Krypteia who had accompanied us. My uncle refused, of course, for the Krypteia. He was silent about Brasidas of Sparta.

“Men came upon me while I was at the stream,” I explain, pinned down by their stares as I sit at my parent’s table. “I’d expect no man to accompany me there.”

“They were instructed to shadow you everywhere,” my uncle says.

“And they did, mostly. But I went to the stream for privacy. Am I not afforded it?”

“They cut off your ear, Kassandra,” mater says. “They sliced your neck.”

“And I survived, killing both of those men. Why am I here? Where is Alexios?”

“Your brother is none of your concern. He’s undertaking a duty that would be needed of him when he is King. And you are here because this is answerable.”

“I told you, I killed the men.”

“You’re Sparta’s pride, Kassandra,” my mother says, echoing her brother. Always echoing her brother. 

Like I used to. Foolishly. 

“Your husband was only permitted to attend on the proviso that he be your defender, and he failed. This is answerable.”

Sudden clarity. Searing, blinding clarity.

“Where is Alexios?” I whisper, searching all of their faces. 

He wouldn’t. He couldn’t. Not without at least confirming with me. Not without asking me whether I needed his fists to answer for me. It wouldn’t be so brash.

I stand from my chair and fight the urge to cower under the eyes of my King. He stares me down brutally, until I feel like the size of an ant.

“Alexios is fulfilling his duties as heir,” he says in a menacing tone.

“He won’t touch a hair on my husband’s head without my consent,” I say, standing taller. I ignore my instincts to flee, instead matching my honey eyes to that of my uncle. Hard; stone. 

“He is the heir first, and your brother second.”

“Where,” I seeth, eyes moving to my mother, unhelpful, then landing on my father. The one who only wants my happiness, but who is blindingly loyal to the Sparta that he loves. That loyalty won’t stretch to answering my question. But then his mouth moves, emitting no sound, and his finger points.

_The Barracks._

I whirl in my red cloak, leaving my uncle yelling behind me. Demanding that I return. That I delay. I will not. 

I am positive that Alexios sees himself as my brother first, and likely thinks he’s doing me a favour. But the ear wasn’t the strategos’ fault, just as it wasn’t the fault of my seeming incompetence with the blade. 

I run to the barracks, sandals slapping the pebbled road as men separate to let me pass. I’m forbidden from the barracks, my feminine wiles unable to be contained within the structure, so dangerous are they to the concentration of the phalanx. But I don’t need to get in, I just need to speak to any of Brasidas’ men, or any of Alexios’ friends, in order to get anyone to sight or hear them. 

“Agiad?” says one of the armoured guards at the gates. 

“My husband or my brother,” I pant, catching my breath. “Are either of them here?”

“Both are here Agiad, but I can’t-.”

“Please let Alexios know that I am here. Please. Tell him that I need to speak to him.”

He looks hesitantly to his companion, but then nods to me. I let myself relax, looking back to the road and watching for a pursuing party. None are coming. Perhaps they think that I’ll be too late. The guard disappears and I’m left waiting in the sun, flies buzzing around me. 

I look to the guard that’s left. 

“Hello Timon,” I say, shielding my eyes. “Your wife told me that she’s due any day now.”

He’s harsh in his Spartan regalia, but a smile lights his face all the same. “Oh yes. The midwife said that she’ll likely go late, like her own mother. I can hardly wait.”

“I’m to assist the Queen in the rites for the newborns next moon. Perhaps your child will be anointed then.”

“I hope so, Kassandra,” he says happily. 

We wait in silence until the other guard returns, Alexios behind him. 

“Brother,” I say, hugging him close. I’ve only seen him once since we returned and we barely spoke. 

“Sister,” he replies. I let him go from the embrace, taking his elbow and directing him towards the path by the river. We used to play there as children with our cousins and friends. Fighting for Sparta, mourning the loss, celebrating the win. My grip on him is hard, my nostrils full of the smell of blood. 

“Too hard, Kass,” he says, trying to shake me off. 

I lift up his hands and see the splits in his knuckles. “How did you earn these?” I almost yell, taking his hand and then throwing it from my grasp. 

“Oh you’ll see,” he says arrogantly. But there’s something else. There’s a tilt to how he’s walking.

“Brasidas protected me in Elis, Al. He didn’t fail me.”

“Your maim says differently,” he replies, pointing to it. “And the fact that your own knives had to defend you is enough information for me.”

“I was at the stream for privacy, Alexios.”

“Maybe he designed the bandits, expecting them to overcome you.”

“Maybe he designed the maim so that the Agiad were so filled with rage that they’d murder him themselves,” I reply. 

I huff, letting my rage out. It won’t help me here. “Please, Al. Please just tell me what you did.”

“He didn’t fight back, you know. Uncle told me that he might, and I was to end him if he did.”

The inflection in his voice. The way he’s holding himself. How he walks, like the ground is spinning below him. The way he’s speaking: none of this is like him. I was only gone for a few weeks, and it looks like he’s aged a decade.

I lean in to smell his breath, my first instincts of his drinking confirmed. But then I lift the brown hair at the back of his neck, looking for the mark.

And finding it.

He’s only sixteen, and already my uncle has inducted him. He’s only sixteen, and already he has the brand that will ensure he can succeed the Agiad when my uncle dies. He’s only sixteen, and already he’s Krypteia. 

I drop my hand from his skin and instead push it into the back of his chiton. He flinches markedly, and I can feel the welts from whips and brands from fire pokers. I stop my exploration to his laboured breathing. He’s keeping himself very strictly under control. 

“Al…” I whisper, reaching for his hand. He squeezes back, and I’m overwhelmed by the pain he’s in. Just as the sadness washes over me: the inevitability of the actions and their resounding place within his world, so does the bubbling anger that’s been my companion since I was a child. Made worse by the poisoned smoke, and finding targets within my own mind, I push the breath that has been caught in my throat out with a low moan. 

Alexios wasn’t born for this. He shouldn’t have to endure this. Neither of us should. Me, burdened by a marriage I hate, sent into the Apella to sniff out treason and to be a distracting presence to strangers as the ogle me, almost killed by chance. And him, losing his friends, his chance at love, and now the control over his body simply because we’re the children our uncle couldn’t have. We’re the heirs he needed to place upon his board and move at his whim. Not for the first time, I think of running into the mountains and taking up a different kind of vocation. But, differently, in this version, I have two other people with me. 

“This is simply a part of it, Kass,” he says, beyond his years. 

“It doesn’t have to be,” I reply, almost desperately. “We could survive these mountains. We’re smart, and strong, and both good with a blade. We could make a living.”

He’s still drunk, and the smile he sends me tells me that I’m dumber than he thought I was. 

“We could!” I say.

“And we’d be hunted down by that King and brought back here by our ears.”

“We could hide. We could keep moving, never staying in one place. We could-.”

“Kass, no. I - look, I’m sorry I lay my hands on Brasidas without your go-ahead. I know you’ve softened towards him, something we can talk about later because right now I don’t want to talk about it.” I open my mouth to reply and he silences me just with a hand. “No, stop. I don’t want to talk about it. Anyway, Korinth’s been insulted in Makedonia, so we’re heading to war anyway. Mater asked for my early induction to the Krypteia because they stay in the city while the rest of the men go to war.”

I’m silent as he finishes, mouth in a hard line. Part of me knows that my mother loves her son; part of me knows that she’s as happy to push us along the board as her own brother. I can see why, but I also know that if Alexios was King and I was his sister, I would be completely unwilling to expose my son to such brutality at such a young age.

Another reason I’d favour running: any of my children would be spared Sparta. 

“But, despite mater’s vague hopes, I’ve actually been assigned to Messenia. For population control.”

He’s still drunk, so doesn’t sense my turned stomach. 

“I think it’s time you went back to the barracks,” I mumble, looking down at my nails. “Don’t drink anymore. And please stop beating my husband.”

“No promises,” is all he says as he walks north, towards the men’s structure.

I go home, unable and unwilling to be anywhere else.

\--------

I wait up for him, but eventually fall asleep on the cushioned floor. It’s morning when he opens the door and finds me there. 

The rising sun is shining behind him, haloing him, making it impossible to see if he’s received any serious injuries. I know how strong my brother is, and that Brasidas of Sparta didn’t fight back fills me with fear for his injuries.

But I can’t ask before he coldly ignores me, making his way to the wash basin and dowsing his face in water. 

“Strategos?” I venture. “Are you-?”

“On your orders, vassilokore, I am marked but not completely beaten down.”

The pet name stings as it hasn’t in months. He’d turned it smooth like a river stone, the flow of his voice softening it until it shone. Until I was almost happy to hear it. But today, it was edged and harsh and undue. 

“You think I ordered my brother to beat you?” I reply, steadying my voice. My mind was still raw from Alexios’ injuries; his hopelessness; his youth. I’m fragile, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to allow Brasidas of Sparta an inch. 

“He told me that you did.”

“I didn’t. In fact, the only reason I knew he was, was because my father whispered it to me behind both my uncle’s and my mater’s back. Then I ran to you to make sure he didn’t kill you, strategos.”

“The order was an easy thing to believe,” he says, squaring his shoulders. 

“Just like with the smoke, you think the worst of me with no proof.”

I stand from the floor and walk through to my small bedroom. I have to fight my instincts to push him into the light so I can grasp just how hurt he is, and they are buried down and down until I barely feel them. Cultivated by captivity. 

The door doesn’t slam because my rug catches it, ruining the effect of me storming away from him. And it’s past daybreak anyway: when I’ll make his breakfast. Maybe I’ll make him olives stuffed with his own arrogance. 

A light tap on the door, which I ignore. Seething; always seething. 

Another tap, this one louder. Did he think I didn’t hear the first? That my hearing is somehow as deficient as his manner? That I-.

He opens the door then, interrupting my quiet deconstruction of his flaws.

“Kassandra?” he mumbles softly, likely trying to not inflame my temper further. I don’t turn to him, my hands holding onto the windowsill for dear life. This window looks south, towards the helot villages and part of the meandering river. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, just behind me. I feel the words rather than hearing them. The slight air they generate in an otherwise deathly still room. 

“Never think it of me again, do you hear me?” I reply. It’s been almost a year since he returned from Messenia, victory in his hands. Almost a year since I was sworn to marry him the following winter. 

“Yes,” he says, a prayer. No excuses; no reasons. Just agreement. It’s enough. 

I turn around, facing him squarely and seeing him in the morning light as it streams through the window. I touch his rough chin lightly, feeling the cut there. Then the nose, likely broken. Then the ear: missing. 

“Brasidas,” I whisper. I know his face reflects the horror on mine, but he stands stoically under my gaze.

This is too much. Both men are beaten, bruised, tainted, and then beaten some more. Brasidas is here in front of me, but Alexios might be experiencing pain as we speak. I can’t stand it.

The tears spring: much easier now that I’m no longer angry. I’m defeated.

He pulls me to him gently, stroking my cropped hair and clutching me around my shoulders. I shudder at the contact: exactly what I needed. Exactly what I wanted. I can feel the strength of his arms as they shelter me in my grief for the brutality. My hands splay along his chest, the muscles ticking under my grasp. 

It isn’t enough just to cry. That isn’t enough for me. I need to act. I need to protect these people.

“It’s war, Kassandra,” he says lightly. He’s read my thoughts and their likely conclusion. I want to make for the mountains. 

“War is death.”

“War is Sparta,” he says sternly, pushing me from him and holding me at arms length. “And I am war, Kass.”

Alexios had said war. I hadn’t heard him. 

Now that Brasidas was saying it, I heard him. 

I’d gone cold to my bones. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t even reply flippantly, so unworking was my mind. He could sense it, just as Al couldn’t, because he pulls me back to him. And this time, I circle my hands around his waist and hold him there.

\--------

I’ve decided that I hate banquets. 

I’m pointedly _not_ seated with my brother, but between my uncle and my husband. I don’t know how that happened, except perhaps as a literal shield between the two men. The strategos wasn’t drinking, his mint water cup almost empty as his wine sits forgotten. I follow his lead, even as my uncle gets uproariously drunk.

This was the war Sparta’s been pulled into by Korinth. Our allies had brayed at the insults afforded them, and insisted that Sparta invade Attika. Which was fine. The men would be back for the winter sowing soon enough, never spending more than a month on foreign soil. But some men wouldn’t come back. They say that the reason Spartans learn to read and write is because war makes widows whose only comfort is the blood soaked letters sent from abroad. 

I’m slightly more optimistic. Brasidas is unlikely to position himself at the front of a phalanx, barking orders, and be killed even as his army overruns the enemy. No. I think he’ll die an old man, surrounded by grandchildren.

My chest caverns out as the thought comes unbidden. 

War makes us think funny things. 

“Kassandra, you performed well in the Apella for Kornith. What was it that the Prince said to you?” my uncle asks, filling his mouth with meat.

“He told me that I owed him a fuck,” I reply impassionately. 

My uncle laughs at the words, poking his elbow into his companion on the other side. It was the insult that bought Sparta easier war terms. One of the reasons I sit within the Apella: to tempt foreigners and when they inevitably bare their desire, my uncle is insulted and Sparta accepts her then superior negotiating position. 

It’s my role. It took violence to get me back to the Apella, after I’d sworn never to go. Brasidas had convinced me, actually. Asked me to attend for him: to check for treason against him. My husband.

My uncle continues to laugh as I feel the strategos’ hand go to the back of my neck and rub away my stress.

But then he stills as the King’s words are directed towards him. 

“Helot, fetch me some more wine, would you?”

He holds out his golden cup, impatiently gesturing. Brasidas doesn’t take it.

“I said: helot. Fetch me some wine,” he repeats, each word a dare. 

A house helot approaches us and tries to take the cup, sparing the strategos, but my uncle denies him. 

“Too good for it, eh?” he says. “Is that why you’ve forced my niece into helot work? Cooking, cleaning, gardening. It’s shameful.”

Brasidas withdraws his hand from my neck and places them determinedly in front of him. We have the eyes of the upper table now, the Agiad and the Eurypontid watching. 

“I don’t want a house helot,” I say, physically blocking the King from seeing Brasidas. “I like the work.”

“You’re Heraclid. It’s beneath you,” he whispers, venom dripping.

A month ago, or two, I would have yielded to him. I would have moved my eyes down and let his dressing down of Brasidas continue. But I’ve come to realise that so many of my actions are not my own. 

“And besides, the helot should realise how lucky he is. He’s strong, smart, with his precious vassilokore by his side. What more could a man want? Tell me, Brasidas? What more could a man want?”

My hand goes instinctively to his knee, begging him to stay his tongue. Begging him to stay silent. 

“Perhaps some more wine?” I ask, gesturing to the helot with the jug in front of us. He nods, thankful for the directive, and fills the golden cup that the King holds. 

“You look like him, you know,” my uncle continues quietly, just to us. Out of earshot of others, and I know these words are more dangerous than anything else. Plausibly absent: easily denied. My grip on Brasidas tightens. “But without the beard.”

Brasidas launches from the table, his red cloak swirling behind him. I don’t follow straight away. I’m astute, and always have been. 

I stand, taking my uncle’s cup, and gesturing high into the air. “To Brasidas of Sparta,” I yell, making my voice heard. “Our leading tactician. The one who will send the dogs of Athens searching for their mothers with simply a look. Your commander as you travel to Attika, the backbone of our jaunt north. To the strategos!”

A yell erupts from the feasting crowd, them all toasting the man who is disappearing into the trees behind them. I drink deeply from the cup and pass it to my uncle, sending my withering stare to him. Then I stand from the dias and follow.

“Strategos,” I say, walking along the road. I think he walked home. All the men will be home tonight, rather than at the barracks. They’ve been instructed to enjoy the feast, then retire with their families. I don’t call out again, following my instincts towards him. 

I do find him at home, but, unexpectedly, curled up in his bed like a child. 

“Brasidas?” I whisper, sitting on the edge and reaching for his hand. He retracts as if I’ve burnt him. “Can you tell me what’s going on?”

“It was him.” 

“What was him?” I gently croon, trying to draw him out.

“The beard. My father never wore a beard.”

He’d told me that before: that his brother wore one, and it was the only difference between the men. Brasidas has started on his, having reached thirty. 

I wait, letting the words flow naturally. 

“He was so tall, Kass. Taller than any man I’d seen before or since. And he had such a loud laugh: deep and rich.”

“What happened?” I prob gently.

“The King put out a decree stating that the fastest, strongest, and smartest of us would be eligible for citizenship if we won at the games they’d set. I was young, but my father won the footrace and the wrestling. They placed a laurel on his head, not dissimilar from the one they placed on my head when I became a strategos, and awarded him citizenship.”

I know this story, of course, having never heard it from his mouth. It was told as a triumph, an assertion of Heraclid power to remind our slave population of their place. 

Now it was a story of murder.

“Then they led them all to the temple, revelling in the gaze of the Gods. My mother begged him not to go, sensing the trick. She’d grown up in Sparta, grown up among the Heraclids. She knew better, but he was of Messenia. Perhaps hopeful, unwilling to accept the ruse. So he went, and with a thousand other men, he was slaughtered.”

I gasp without being able to help myself. 

“And it was him, Kassandra. Your uncle was not only the King who sanctioned the execution, but one of the Krypteia who carried it out.”

“How can you be certain?” I whisper. 

Unable to understand. Unwilling to consider it. Unfaltering in my groomed loyalty. It’s a deep part of me that defers to the Agiad when in conflict. 

I regret the question. Of course he’s certain. A four year old doesn’t forget the face of the man condemning his parent. Four years old, and he can remember the false laurel on his father’s head.

I lie down behind him, cupping his back with mine as the night winds bite. I bring my chest close to him, my mouth just behind his ear.

“I’m sorry, strategos. No one should lose a father that way. Especially not you.”

“It destroyed us. My eldest brother swore revenge, and instead found a sword with the rest of the revolt.”

Unbidden, the flash of a lost brother swells into my mind. Unfathomable. 

I hug him tighter, closer, breathing into his neck. He relaxes into the gesture and allows me to take his hand and squeeze it tightly. I try to push my sorrow and conviction through to him until I hear his breathing even out, slow puffs telling me that he’s descended into the land of nod. 

I don’t extract myself from him, but let myself lull into sleep just by listening to him breathing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, Sparta really did that. They tricked a bunch of helots into thinking they were gaining citizenship, then slaughtered them.


	7. Chapter Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy V Day!
> 
> You're welcome; also, my apologies.

_Kassandra,_

_I’m writing from just north of the north wall. The plains are tantalisingly close to being ours, but Athens stands tall in its rebuff of our advances. We’ve tried battering them, we’ve tried drawing them out, we’ve tried strangling their water source. Not much has worked._

_But at least we’ll win the plains. The city is full of farmers and slaves that fled before the red of our cloaks, terrified of our reported prowess. Not that I would ever harm a simple slave, but they ran for fear all the same._

_I’m trying to crack the walls. Trying to figure out a way to circumvent them, to go under or over: simply in. They gain their supplies from the port and have no need for the plains. Perikles is sly, as well you know, and likely had a war chest full of silver and gold for exactly the type of campaign that Sparta is trying to run._

_I’ve sent him a few heads: lieutenants he’d overestimated. But, still, we can’t crack the walls._

_If you have any advice, I’d welcome it._

_Yours,  
Brasidas._

_\--------_

_Kassandra,_

_Thank you for your last letter. Your thoughts were welcome, enough that they differed from the offered wisdom I’m so used to at the war table. So many of the men here miss the subtlety of politics, and even as I read your words, I can sense the words under them._

_Thank you for them, most of all. I will watch for your warnings._

_We’ve not lost many, thank the Gods, and we sacrificed a bull in thanks the other night. You would have hated the feast: all too much patting ourselves on the back while almost nothing had been done to advance into Athens._

_I also have some news: good, or bad, depending on your mood. I can’t return for the winter sowing. I need to stay in order to nut out this plan to take Athens. I hope to return for the winter harvest, but only if Athens opens like an egg before then. I doubt it will._

_If you find this to be good news, then boon to you. I’m happy if you’re happy._

_If you find this, as I suspect, to be bad news, then I’m very sorry for it. I don’t know how we will manage if I return home, and besides, there is enough work there for the field helots without me bothering them._

_I’ll try for the winter harvest. A year since our marriage, something I know you’ll want to celebrate. Ha ha._

_Yours,  
Brasidas._

_\--------_

_Kass,_

_Only a short one I’m afraid._

_My leg will heal: ignore the reports. But Athens will crumble. I’ll beg you not to ask me how, I can barely verbalise it myself. But all of Sparta is returning home in case the disease spreads. I can’t bring it home to you._

_Yours,  
Brasidas._

_\--------_

The last one had a small pressed blue flower inside. 

We hadn’t truly spoken since what he told me after the banquet. He left in the early morning, his armour gleaming and his shoulders strong. 

My uncle killed his father. Maybe not personally, but he ordered it, sanctioned it, delivered it. And then he’d added insult to injury and sponsored Brasidas. Brought him to Sparta to learn at the agoge and to live in his household as a foster son. There were a few, from my understanding: a number of boys that showed promise and were sponsored by Pleistarkhos. 

I’d never questioned the hatred. I knew my own was because of his arrogance, his cruelty, his sharpness, and the way he strived to destroy my family. But I’d never asked where his motivation came from. It’s like he was sprung out of the ground, fully formed, ready to destroy my uncle.

But, instead, it was grown from murder and revenge for a father taken brutally. Brasidas had entered my uncle’s household, nurturing the part of him that couldn’t remember his father’s voice. Then he rose, and rose, and rose, a dangerously ambitious helot with the mind of a fox and the intent of a snake. To destroy, to maim, to ingrain himself on a Sparta that would shout his name and throw flowers when he returned with her victories.

As he was now. Lauded for how he handled Sparta’s conquest of Attika while being wise enough to withdraw when plague threatened. It was now past winter, and spring roasted us gently with her soft winds. He missed the winter harvest, too. 

And Alexios is also returning from Messenia. I haven’t exchanged letters with him. I don’t want to read of his activities. They’re abhorrent to me. 

So instead I wait, the pressed flower in hand, for my husband to march back to the city. Only, of course, he’ll be astride his black horse at the lead of the men. I scratch at my neck nervously, standing atop the dias. I represent the Agiad, of course. Who is better suited than the wife of the strategos?

People mill around below me, waiting for the column of men to appear in the agora. Here we wait for the dust of the road to clear and the men’s faces to become apparent. 

The storm is a welcome relief when it comes, battering us with pellets of rain. I bring my red hood up, the fulled wool protecting me from the worst of it, and watch as the people in the crowd barely notice their wet faces. They’re focused and primed for half of Sparta to return. 

And then they’re here: the sound of their steps preceding them around the hillock and rumbling up my spine. I try not to crane my neck, but I can already feel the ghost of his fingers running along it. 

He left with so much unsaid. With so much unclear.

But he’s there, now, astride his stallion, keeping him at a steady pace despite his obvious desperation. Muddy, wet, bright in the sun. 

He dismounts and walks towards the dias, the crowd watching on. Then he kneels to me, bowing his head.

“Agiad, wife, I bring with me the plains of Attika,” he says, head still down.

I have to resist the instinct to leap at him.

“Thank you, Brasidas of Sparta. Your gift to this city will not be forgotten.”

Practiced words; hollow words. 

Then he stands and I step off the dias, he being disallowed from stepping onto it. He could try, but it would give too much reason for ire. He doesn’t hesitate, even with the eyes of Sparta on us, to embrace me fully, lifting me clear off the ground. The crowd cheers, yelling his name over the din of the storm.

“I missed you, vassilokore,” he whispers into my ear.

I bled for you, I pined for you, I felt the whisper of your touch as I slept on your pillow.

“I missed you, too,” I whisper back.

Things have changed. Absence has changed things.

He gently lets me to the ground and holds my hand as he pulls me over to his horse. Then, hands about my waist, he lifts me into the saddle and mounts behind me. The cheers and brays and yells continue as he gallops out of the agora and towards home. 

\--------

Despite my reluctance, or perhaps because of it, things don’t much change. He doesn’t sleep at the barracks, now being over thirty, but at home. I made his bed my own while he was gone, but intended to return to my smaller cot once he fell asleep on the cushioned floor, listening to me intone the song of Eurydice. I thought to leave him there, sprawled but comfortable, his breathing deep and his lips curling slightly. His skin had browned in the time he’d been away and his hair had blonded slightly. He looked even more Messenian than he ever had, probably more like his father.

There were new scars, too. Some were white, indicating their age. Some were pinker and some were red. I know he won’t tell me how he got them: he won’t think it relevant. He lives, he strategises, and he wins. I hadn’t seen the leg scar he wrote about, but would in due time.

Then he groans, curling around a cushion in his sleep. I shake my head lightly at him. He’ll be tired and sore in the morning, sleeping on the floor. But it’s his own fault for not returning to bed. Or, I guess, partially my fault for not waking him now.

“ _Kassandra…_ ” he whispers, throat closed.

I hesitate. He’s dreaming, but his tone was choked. His face has changed from the serene smile that played on his mouth earlier into a grimace. 

“Kass, no,” he says, faster this time. More frenzied. His grimace has turned to fear.

I need to wake him. 

“Strategos, it’s okay,” I whisper, leaning towards his face and stroking his hair. 

“Kass, no. He’s going to - you have to run.”

“Strategos, I promise you that I’m safe,” I say again gently. “You’re at home; we’re at home.”

He opens his eyes, fear still in them, and he looks up at me eagerly. 

“Kass…?” he says.

“You’re at home, Brasidas. What was the dream?”

He rubs his eyes, pushing himself up to sitting. “Ahh, just danger for you. That’s all.”

“I’m not in danger,” I reply, smiling a little. 

“I don’t know about that,” he replies glumly. 

“No, strategos,” I whisper. “I know that I’m not in danger because you’re here, and you’d never let me come to harm.”

He lifts his head to mine then, searching my face. Always searching. 

I missed him so much. Not just his sardonic humour; the way he always has something to say; the way he enters a room and commands it; the way he turns his horse, his arms bare and his surety known. Not just his protective instincts; his familiar smile; his seeking gaze. 

I missed the poorer parts of him too. I missed his suspicion; his doubt; his false sense of confidence; how he hides his past for fear; how he removes reason simply because he thinks he’s right. 

I missed all of him. I needed him home for the winter sowing, but I’d never tell him that. I couldn’t send him a letter with a plea to return home, because then he would. He would have returned and left the fields of Attika behind. 

But now that he’s within my reach and I simply have to extend my hand, I hesitate. I’m reluctant. Because he may scorn me. May remember how I tried to slice his throat. Might recall the way his own political plans were thwarted by me as a teenager. 

I sit back on my feet, and he watches me retreat. It could be disappointment in his eyes, but I don’t want to give myself hope. 

“I should go to bed, and you should too, vassilokore,” he says, rising to his feet and putting out his hand to me. I take it, and can’t bring myself to release it. My breath is short and my chest feels heavy. It’s pregnant, the air we’re breathing. Like it could either keel and die or spin and flourish. 

But it’s only when he looks me in the eye that I feel the shift. The stillness turns to water, and I wade through to kiss him. Like slow motion, like the tides. 

He reaches around my waist, drawing me close as I open my mouth to him and feel the softness of his beard and the gentleness of his lips. It’s almost chaste: yielding and experimental. The only kisses we’ve shared have been either quick and painless or violent and rough, so this is new. Maybe this is how it’s meant to be. 

He picks me up off the floor, similar to how he did this afternoon, his strength pressing against me. But instead of spinning me around and showing our strong partnership to Sparta, he pushes me into the wall of the living room and I bring my legs around his hips. Though he presses hard, his urgency belied, I could push him away and he would yield. He doesn’t presume this; doesn’t reach for anything that he knows I won’t willingly give him. 

I reach down, his chiton all together too long and my own legs proving a barrier. I give up, moaning in frustration, drawing a smile from him. 

“I’m not going to make it that easy, Kassandra,” he whispers.

“And I won’t beg,” I reply, dropping my legs and pushing him from me. As I thought, he retreats immediately. Unfortunately for him, he trips and falls backwards onto the cushioned floor. Taking my chance, I straddle the bottom part of his legs and restrict them. Then slowly, in what I know is an agonisingly leisurely advance, I kiss up his thighs and hips, bypassing his need, to undo his belt and rest my tongue on his stomach.

He jolts lightly, the sensation tickling him. His hands find my hair and he strokes it lightly as I tease him. Moving down, then up, anxiously close. Then, almost as an afterthought, one of my kisses reaches the tip of his already roused length, my tongue poking out only just. 

He whispers my name, his voice breathy. Then he continues speaking as I continue to kiss him, the fields of Attika laid bare. 

“I missed you so much, Kassandra. From your figure, to your mouth, your eyes, your mind. I especially missed your quips, the way you find holes in rhetoric and situations where there definitely were none.” He pauses, out of breath, as I linger my mouth just to the end of him. Then, trusting that I won’t extend myself as he tries to speak, he continues. It’s a mistake on his part. 

“I wanted to write the most beautiful things to you. I wanted to tell you of my pride in you, of how each blue flower I saw reminded me of you. But I-.”

I extend down then, him filling my mouth and obviously also filling his brain. Brasidas of Sparta, bereft of thought. Who’d have known it was possible. 

I knew. I knew it was possible. He went silent the first night, too. 

I lick the end lightly, pushing the skin down until the pink is exposed, then drawing circles in it with my tongue. His hands in my hair get tighter as I start the rhythm that will lead him beyond himself. He’s strong, mighty: the difference between Sparta winning a war and losing it. And yet, so simple a thing as this can make his mind leave him completely. 

I stop when the salted taste begins, easing myself away from him as he groans at me. 

“Tell me about how you introduced plague to Athens,” I say, mounting him. He gasps as he enters and so do I. Not to be outdone, he uses his hands between my legs to make me make noises that I’m not particularly proud of. 

“It was rats,” he says, pausing between each word to breath. “They came from Egypt in a locked crate, and I simply paid a beggar to drop it within the agora.”

He pushes down on my hips as he speaks, his fingers almost bruising. 

“That’s one way to break a city,” I reply, breathless. Yielding. Gone. 

My back arcs as the tremor moves through me, breathing, always breathing so heavily into his neck as my heart beats for him. He responds in kind, smiling up at me while twirling his fingers in my hair, both pleased and astonished. I’m surprised too and I let the laugh escape me as he rolls me over and takes me completely. 

Later, as we’re still tangled in the cushions and blankets stolen from the benches, he kisses my ear and whispers closely to it. 

“Did you worry that I wouldn’t return?”

“No,” I admit, only part of a lie. “But each time I welcomed the column into the city and you weren’t in front of it, I felt it.”

“I’ll always come back to you, vassilokore, one way or another.” 

“War is dangerous.”

“So is Sparta, and we’ve survived it yet.”

“How long are you home for?” I ask, baring myself to him with the question. 

“Not long. But the plains have held, and there is trouble in the west. Athens is assisting helots with evacuation in Pylos and Sphacteria; I believe that’s where your brother was.”

I lift up my head to look at him. “He’s back?”

“Yes, he arrived yesterday, after we did.”

I jump from the position on the floor to replace my chiton, looking for my belt.

“Kass, he’ll be asleep. Daybreak is more than an hour away.”

“I didn’t meet him; I didn’t know he was home,” I say, finding my belt and putting it on. 

“He’ll not miss you this morning. Come back.” He puts out his hand to draw me back into the cushions but I ignore it. 

“He missed me yesterday, strategos. I didn’t greet him.”

I stand, throwing a grey cloak over my shoulders. With a smile to him, I open the door and leave him to the cushions.

\--------

He was right. My parent’s house is dark and sleepy when I arrive, with only the helots active with breakfast. I join them, happily working my hands with the house servants who were mainstays in my childhood.

I’m not a huge help, I’ll admit: I only produce simple fare for Brasidas and I, and haven’t for a while. Since he left for Attika, I’ve been simply eating salted lamb and bread. 

Aiche, the house helot my mother’s age, takes pity, and sends me through the motions for the morning meal. My hands sink into the dough of a flatbread and I watch as she adds spices I’d never think of: thyme, rock salt, paprika from Persia. 

“Can you teach me?” I say, amazed at her efficiency.

“I am teaching you, Agiad,” she says warmly.

“No, at home. Can you come by and teach me? We don’t have a house helot and I’m sure Brasidas is sick of having the same food everyday, especially now that he’ll be home from the barracks in the evenings.”

She eyes me, almost a look of hope in her eyes. “Of course. I’d have to get permission from your mother and father, but I’m sure they’ll agree.”

I send her a grin, plopping the bread into a warm pot to rise a little. 

I work with them until the day breaks and my father reaches the outdoor kitchen. 

“Kassandra,” he says gently, bringing me into his arms and kissing my forehead. “Good morning.”

“Good morning, pater,” I reply, his love warm around me. “Alexios?”

“Upstairs.”

“Was he disappointed?” I ask quietly, dreading the answer.

“No, no. He was just happy to be home.”

I nod, walking with him inside to the dining table. Aiche has already filled the table with the morning meal and I take my time picking the best cuts for Al. He’ll be awake soon, the sun blinking in his eyes. I feel immensely guilty. He’s never been assigned away before, and I wasn’t there to greet him when he returned. He’s so young, and would have been doing brutal work with brutal men. I’d be unsurprised if it didn’t rub off on him, and I silently steel myself for a different boy to walk down to breakfast.

But he’s almost the same: slightly taller, with more muscle and a harder line to his jaw. His shoulders have extended so much that he looks out of proportion, but that’s just teenagers turning into men. 

And his eyes are still the same honeyed brown; still the same as my eyes. 

I leap for him and bring him so close I almost crush him. My hands go to his hair, counting the braids, trying to convince myself that he’s the same boy who left months ago. 

“Kass,” he says, voice almost breaking. 

“Al, I’m sorry that I didn’t meet you yesterday. I didn’t know that you were due back.”

“It’s okay; you’re here now.”

“I’m here now,” I repeat, softer.

I pick up the plate I filled for him and drag him out into the fields, to our secret cave we found as children. We don’t speak as we walk, but I can sense him bubbling. It feels almost like grief.

Only after he’s eating does he start.

“Messenia is not what I expected,” he says, mouth full of carrot. 

“How so?” I reply, opening my questions so he can reply how he likes.

“Simply?” he says. “There was more blood than I ever thought there could be in the world.”

I deepen my frown, watching him eat carefully. He doesn’t round the plate how he used to, taking a bit of the fruit, then the meat, then the bread. Instead, he starts with one type of food, finishes it, then moves on. It’s more methodical; more structured. 

“Helots, mainly,” he continues. “Helots at home, at their agora, at their leisure. One we took because we saw him swim the length of the lake. He was my age, maybe younger.”

“Gods, Alexios,” I whisper.

“Always a slice to the throat. Letting them die in their blood. Our signature, I was told. The reminder of what awaits them if they step out of line.”

He stops then, finishing off the meat and starting on the bread. I swallow audibly.

I don’t know what to say. This is a part of the succession. Every heir becomes Krypteia. My uncle did the same, and it resulted in a powerfully vengeful enemy. 

Alexios is, despite his large shoulders and calm demeanour, still a boy. Only seventeen: not even of age yet. 

“But even for all the blood, I think they deserve it,” he says quietly. “We conquered them, and they’re our slaves. Why should we suffer them?”

“Because they’re people, Al,” I whisper. It only then occurs to me that he hasn’t told me the worst of it. He’s holding back the horrors of Messenia. 

“They’re rats. Just like the rats your husband set in Athens; if we let them spread then they’ll destroy us.”

I hadn’t yet examined why I was okay with Athenian suffering. Why children dying of plague in the enemy city was within my tolerances, but children being murdered in Messenia was not. Perhaps because I knew helots. Perhaps because I loved them. 

He’s channeling his anger towards me, and I let him. 

“That’s why you didn’t greet me, Kassandra. You’ve softened to the man who set himself the task of destroying us.”

I don’t reply. He’s too hurt and I refuse to add to it.

“All of the men in Messenia have his colouring, his ridiculous dark brown eyes. His stupidly smart mouth. I killed men just like him, and I’m not even sorry.”

He’s hurt. He’s just shoving his hurt towards me, so I can feel some of what he does.

“Do you like him?” he says with venom. 

I don’t know who he is. But I do know that the time it takes for him to return to himself will be longer than he has before he must return to his duties. 

Is this how my uncle was? Was he reasonable, loving, fair, and then was turned by the brutality he endured in his teenage years so that Sparta’s traditions could dictate a King? 

He ordered the raids on the helots. He slaughtered them himself, but then he took helot children into his home: orphans by his actions, and raised them to be Spartan. Regret perhaps; remorse maybe. Or power. 

“You’re right that I’ve softened towards him,” I reply gently, as quietly as I dare. 

He smirks, like his worst fears have been realised and he was right. “Then I might kill him, not for you, but to make sure he doesn’t destroy you, Kassandra.”

“Please don’t,” I whisper. Searching my mind for another outlet for his rage, my mind blanks. He has to be steered away from this. But I can’t think of anything except how Sparta has stolen my brother from me. 

“You should have sliced him on your wedding night. Or I should have when I took his ear.”

“Please don’t,” I breathe again, so quiet that the wind whips it away. Food lays forgotten. 

“You should have known better. He was always going to use you against us. You just couldn’t steel yourself against his cock. You’re a shame to the Agiad.”

This isn’t my brother. This isn’t the beautiful boy who stole blueberries with me. This isn’t the smiling joker, assured in himself and his gruff impressions. 

This isn’t Alexios. 

I reach for him, trying to pull him close, but he pushes out of my arms and I fall to the floor of the cave, my hands smarting with grazes.

“Don’t touch me. I can feel him on your skin,” he seethes, looking down at me. I see a flash of regret, but then it’s gone: replaced by cold brutality. 

He walks out of the cave, stooping because the roof is too low for him, and up back towards the house. 

The usual worries, that he’d be hurt or killed while at war, or by the wild animals that suit our tests in the agoge, or by the stray spear while sparring, all disappear. Not many of those things can touch him now. 

I feel like I’ve gained one man and lost another. I feel like I’m tumbling down a mountainside with only the air to break my fall.

I have to get him back.


	8. Chapter Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Timeline's a little funky: forgive me for it.

The light is soft, winking, cool to my eyes, even if an unwelcome sight. Birds trill their song, lulling me out of sleep.

Unwillingly, I wake. 

But then I turn in my bed and he’s there, scrunched up into the corner with his broad shoulders dwarfing the tiny mattress. I’d walked away cranky from him last night, and he’d followed me, unapologetic but unwilling to let me be angry with him. It was silly; trite; predictable. I’ve been moody lately. Likely because of looming Messenia.

It was no effort at all to wake him with light touches. Nothing drastic, the intimacy of our coupling leaping then stagnating. In no time at all he was comfortable with me running my hands through his hair, but it seemed to take a while for him to be comfortable with my knowing his idiosyncrasies. Like it was his safety he was entrusting to me. If I knew when he ate, and what he ate, and who he ate with, I could use it against him. So, for a week or so, he pretended to like olives again. 

But I know he likes being woken slowly, gently, with my hands about his shoulders and his face. 

And there, a smile. Sleepy, easy, utterly charming. 

“You have to go soon,” I say, letting my troubles to the air and knowing he’d capture them. 

“I have to go soon,” he confirms, rolling onto his back with his forearm under his head. I nuzzle into his shoulder, breathing him in. 

He’d only been home for two months, and now he was leaving again. This time, he was heading west, to the country of his birth, to stop his countrymen fleeing Sparta to Athens. They’d taken Pylos, a peninsula, and were evacuating Sparta’s slave class as they fled from the red cloaks. 

Al was going with him. I’d made no progress at all with him. My jokes fell awkwardly, my insistence that we take a jaunt was lost, even my suggestion of strategy games was ignored. He was a different person, and I worried deeply. Al was going to Pylos to prove himself in battle. As a future King, he had to show prowess and cunning on the field, just as he had to show statecraft and management off of it. 

Something in my demeanour must have changed, because he lent a small kiss to my forehead. 

“Make me a promise,” I say, quickly and almost frightfully. 

“Yes,” is all he replies: a surprise. He’d never agreed to a promise before first exacting what it was for. Neither had I, for that matter. Perhaps he was still dreaming. Perhaps he couldn’t quite hear me yet.

“Please protect my brother,” I whisper, tone strangled. “He’s young, and foolish, and not himself. He hasn’t spoken to me at all since he got back from Messenia. Please place him under your command and protect him.”

“Kassandra…” he whispers into my hair. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea. It might alienate him further.”

“Please. Please, Brasidas.”

He breathes out, and I fully expect him to stand his ground. Alexios’ hatred for him has grown, and it is completely to do with killing Messenian helots. Perhaps the faces have melded; perhaps the propaganda has seeped into his soul and now he’s spouting it with reckless abandon. Perhaps this has irrevocably changed him. But that isn’t Brasidas’ concern. He’s the tactician, the general, the strategos. If he was just a lieutenant, he could easily keep an eye on him. But as a strategos, he doesn’t have the scope.

But, instead, he whispers his promise to me. That he’ll protect my brother. Earnest and sure.

A heavy knock at the door draws both of our heads, and Brasidas leaves my arms to go and answer it. 

When he closes the door on the messenger, he calls my name with fervour, excitement and a dash of regret. I rise immediately, draping the blanket around my shoulders and peeking my head out the door. He only has eyes for the paper he’s holding, and I watch him only for a moment. His long hair, the braid retied just yesterday; his new beard proudly adorning his brown face; and his dark brown eyes, the colour of a cedar wood. The swirl in my chest roars at the sight of him, and I know that if I give it rein, I won’t be able to let him go. 

“Important news?” I venture.

He raises his eyes to mine, and his expression is the one he gets when he’s embroiled in war: fierce and ambitious. But then it shifts, softening. His eyes match mine, but then move downwards, drinking me in how I did him just before. 

Like he thinks he’ll never see me again. 

“We’re being called to leave now, the commanders,” he says, walking to me, then past me, into the room that holds his armour. I look down at the paper still warmed, passed to me by his hands. Athens is claiming the territory. Athens has declared that Pylos is their foothold on the Peloponnese. 

“Brasidas?” I call, still looking at the paper.

“Yes?”

“The phalanx won’t work in Pylos.”

“I know.” His words are muffled, like he’s struggling with ties. I walk down the corridor to help him, letting the blanket fall from my shoulders. Perhaps it’s cruel, especially when he’s got haste on his mind. But I want to remind him that he has to come home. 

Unimaginable, that I’d wish him home. Unnatural almost. It was so easy to leap after I’d taken the first step.

I walk towards him and take the leather strips of his chestplate from him, tying them in a knot as he stares at me. Then I retrieve his greaves from the chest as he stands stock still, muscles primed. I go to my knees and slip the guards onto his shins, reaching around and steadying them to him. This armour was made for him: unique colours and unique patterns. Everything down to the red colour was custom to his satisfaction. 

When his greaves are placed, I put my hand out and ask for his pteruges. He hesitates before giving them to me, knowing that this is a delay he likely doesn’t have time for.

“What would you suggest for Pylos?” he says, voice light. 

I look up at him. He’s controlled and seemingly calm, but if he’s asking me about military strategy, then he’s questioning his core. I finish his lower armour, clipping his chestplate to his skirt. I lend only a small kiss to his thigh, feeling the thick muscle beneath his skin before raising my face to him. 

“You are a brilliant tactician,” I whisper, putting my hands along his jaw. “You have proven that time and time again. You have been pushed back, and yet here you are.”

Tears well in his eyes and he tilts his head back. I push his chin back down, sending my conviction through him as I force his eyes to see mine. 

“Say it,” I say, knowing. Realisation creeps through me. Why would Brasidas of Sparta doubt? 

He breathes out through his nose, physically bringing himself back under control. 

“Kassandra, I forfeited Pylos for Attika,” he whispers, so low that I almost don’t hear it. “The plains fell in exchange for it.”

My grip on his face tightens, almost scratching him. 

“Why.”

“Because I needed the early victory. We have no such agreement for after. We take Sphacteria, and from there we push back on Pylos and gain it back.”

I rip his cheeks to the side, leaving a scratch along his jaw. 

“You needed the early victory to return to your city to the shouts and brays of its people. You needed the early victory to score a triumph against the Agiad.”

He doesn’t shy from the truth. It’s a shame: it would have given me more to say. 

“Yes,” he whispers. “But it’s done. Almost no men will be lost, and any that are taken prisoner will be returned at Sphacteria. It’s how we took Attika.”

“You took many commanders heads,” I say, tearing my eyes from him. “They will return the favour.” I lean down, retrieving the last pieces of his armour: his bracers. Roughly, I pull his arm towards me and place the bracer along it, tightening too hard. “Alkibiades?” I ask, already knowing. 

“Yes. But I didn’t fuck him, if you think I did.”

“I don’t think you did, but I think you let him enjoy you in other ways. He’s going to fuck you at Pylos whether you like it or not, anyway.”

“I understand that you’re upset at me, but it’s done, Kassandra.”

“So undo it.”

“We would lose anyway. Pylos is rough country. The phalanx doesn’t work in such an arena.”

“I know. So work more quietly. You think you’ll lose Pylos and they do too. Reduce the troop numbers. Take less ships. Save your men. Oh,” I say, realisation mounting. “You’re already only taking my uncle’s men. Like Alexios.”

“I swear your brother will not come to harm, Kassandra,” he says harshly.

“Ask me why I don’t believe you,” I whisper. 

“Because it would be easier for me to lie. But I’m not lying. He’s important to you, so he’s important to me.”

I search his face like he’s searched mine so often before. The light tremble in his lip as his mouth opens slightly. His command of his breath. And how his eyes don’t shift up or to the right.

“I believe you.”

I pull his other arm more gently towards me, stroking along the smooth skin. “Then lose as little as possible, and then let Hellas hear your roar and never lose another battle. But, strategos,” I pull the ties too tight and he flinches, “no more deals. No more politics. I know that your hatred of my uncle is warranted, so focus on him without wasting Sparta. Our children will inherit this city and we need to keep it strong for them.”

The swirl in my chest makes me convulse, unable to keep it contained. The way he looks at me is so hopeful, like I washed up from a storm and surprised him on the beach. 

He drags me towards him, and I yelp when the sharp edges of his armour connect with my bare skin. He laughs at me uproariously, then kisses me roughly, holding me at arms length. “I love you, Kassandra. You’re like the wind lifting me beyond the trees.”

He lets go of me then, picking up his helm and leaving the house before I can say anything at all. 

\--------

I watch him leave, astride his large horse and with five hundred men behind him. He’s back to the commander, the strategos who leads his men with poise and fury towards the blue shields of Athens. 

He’ll lose Pylos, as we discussed. Some of the men behind him will die, caught in something that they don’t understand. Their loyalty to my uncle unbroken, but their lives, if they’re lucky, will not change that much. I wondered, quietly, whether Brasidas had considered the impact of entrenching loyalty in these men, rather than forcing them to question it. His loss of Pylos would galvanise their loyalty to the Agiad, rather than break it. My calculations came out on the side of attracting men with honey; the strategos had obviously decided that it was worth the risk. 

For my part, I sat, and I waved, and I presided, as the men walked out of the city. My brother is among them, but I don’t look for him now. I want to remember the happy, smiling child that still fills my dreams rather than the cold fiend who stalks my nightmares. I miss him terribly, but have to constantly remind myself that he isn’t truly gone. He isn’t lost to me completely as if he was thrown from Taygetos, no: instead I was determined to get him back. 

“Kassandra, it was kind of you to volunteer to preside over the march.” My uncle’s words cut sharply through my reverie, pushing my thoughts back as I smooth my face. 

“Of course. It feels like the least I could do.”

“Well, the least you could do is nothing, and you know that I wouldn’t stop you. But I’m sure your brother appreciates seeing you here.”

My brother. My worry. His pain. His doing. 

“At least he will return to Messenia in the capacity of a hoplite, rather than as Krypteia,” I say, calmly and warmly. I feel the sadness bubbling through me. “It hasn’t agreed with him.”

“It never does,” he says, almost as a confession. 

“Did it affect you as poorly?” I ask, openly and without pretense. He’s still my uncle, after all. The one who, for all intents and purposes, I am here to assure. 

“Yes,” he says, looking down at his hands. “Messenia is difficult, incredibly difficult. But, we must manage the helots.” His eyes turn to me then, as if remembering who he is speaking to. He doesn’t know how much I’d softened to Brasidas, doesn’t know the secrets we’ve shared. Purposely, and smartly, I think, we’ve avoided each other in public completely, only speaking and touching at home. When your idea of someone changes, I think it’s easy to see. It would take no inkling at all for my uncle to see that I loved him. So, instead, we avoid each other. 

“Kassandra, perhaps that’s a problem you can solve?”

“What?” I ask briskly, surprised. 

“I don’t like murdering helots,” he says quietly. “Especially the ones that show promise, as your husband did. Think on this problem while he is away, yes?”

“Yes, uncle,” I say automatically, the response ingrained in me since birth. The King asks, you respond affirmatively, even if the request fills you with dread.

He touches my shoulder lightly, rubbing away a little girl’s fear. 

“And don’t fear for your husband’s life, your brother is tasked with taking care of it.”

I turn my head to him sharply, eyes trying to suppress my anger. Trying to prevent him seeing my horror at his words. I force my head back towards the marching men, swallowing quietly. I haven’t fooled him, obviously, because he puts his hands behind his back and puffs out his chest. 

We’ve been fools. I’ve been a fool. 

Before, he stayed at the barracks. He ate at the barracks. He never came home. And now, he not only did all of those things with me, but I missed rites and meals with my mother and father to return to him, too. 

Somehow, I find words: Brasidas’ words. “Pylos is rough country.”

“Oh, yes. I know Brasidas has no chance of winning. It’s managed.”

“Managed.” I reply, deadpan. Unamused. The way he’s smiling is like a deadly toothed shark, circling. 

“Managed,” he confirms. “Managed by a combination of Athens, my men, and your brother. It was foolish of him to think my loyal subjects would let him lead them.”

“He’s your leading tactician.”

“And your brother will replace him.”

“He’s too young and too unpredictable, and you know it.” I’m furious, but calm. I can’t break here. 

He considers me carefully, staring at me through his thick eyebrows. Searching, always searching. 

“Think on my helot problem, and let me solve yours.”

He turns from me then, his red cloak trailing him. 

I don’t wait for him to leave the dias, as per convention, but instead grasp my grey cloak and leave him in my wake. 

\--------

Pleistarkhos’ helot problem. 

Sparta’s helot problem.

Well, the problem with the helots was that Sparta can’t work without them. We, that is, actual Spartan citizens, need the slaves to sow and harvest and cook and clean and make. It’s Sparta’s wealth. Not the land itself, but the people. The labour to run it. The slaves belong to the city, not to their masters on each farm, and it is up to the city to ensure their wellbeing. 

But that wellbeing is tied to their meekness. Any strong boy who shows a talent for wrestling is, if he can’t or won’t catch the eye of a sponsor, simply killed. His throat sliced by my uncle or my brother or by the men sent to Elis to protect us. 

Our farm’s helots, for example, are strong and fierce, so much so that some of them probably would have been culled under a different master. But they’re safe under the strategos and, instead, Brasidas rewards them with carefully placed coin. Being a mothakes, he cannot sponsor them himself, but he can suggest boys to his friends. He can protect them within his limits.

But the problem. Helots have risen before and will again. They hold the small population of Spartiates in their hands like a tiny bird. It would take almost no effort for the helots to organise, set themselves the task of training, and gaining weapons. But, I suppose, that’s what I would do if I was Athens. I would arm helots. That would bring a certain Spartan King to his knees. 

It’s a dull ache, when the idea comes. Like when you haven’t eaten, and then suddenly remember to. 

A sharp yell brings me back to reality before the notion fully forms, and with no wax to write it down, it builds momentum within my mind until it almost leaks from my eyes. 

“Kassandra!” a messenger yells, his feet storming into my front yard.

“What is it?” I say, pragmatic. It had been a week since Brasidas rode from Sparta, my calm leaving with him. But the messenger was walking through my yard, a bundle of scrolls in his hands. 

“I’m ahead of the main army. Your husband is with them. He’s injured.”

“No,” I manage to whisper, only for my benefit. He passes me the scroll, sweat stained, then continues his run through our neighbouring estates, likely passing out death notices to soon-to-be grieving families. 

I take it and, almost unconsciously, smooth out the paper. The seal is Brasidas’. No one would take his hand and mark a scroll with his ring if he was dead. So I unfurl it, shaking slightly. 

_Vassilokore,_

_I write ahead so you won’t fret. I will be brought home to plan. Please make ready._

_Love,  
Brasidas._

I still my breath. As I say, pragmatic. 

Then I venture into the house and throw open the windows to the gaining wind, letting the fresh air in and the dark out. He will be with his closest men and will need chairs around his bed, and scrolls and ink. 

And bandages. And fresh water. And a red chiton to hide the blood. 

My breath catches again and I flinch from the pain it causes as my nostrils close. And me. Make myself ready. 

_Gods, what happened to him?_

The voices reach me as the wind picks up. A cart, some horses, at least five men. I venture outside, opening the door just as they arrive beneath the olives trees to our west. 

“Kassandra,” Timon says, walking to me while the others busy themselves with the cart. “Perhaps his bed?” is all he says, staring at me hopelessly. Timon has been Brasidas’ friend for many years: one of his closest advisors in war. His eyes continue to shift and there is a branched vein through his forehead: stress. Immense stress. 

“Yes,” I croak in reply. “Through here.”

Behind him, I see four other men grasp a part of my husband, two for the arms and two for the legs and carefully, carefully, they lift him, avoiding his lower leg. 

It draws my eye because of its absence. The men are avoiding his lower leg because it’s missing.

I gasp, my breath escaping and leaving me without an anchor. 

“Vassilokore…” Brasidas whispers, calling my eyes to his. There’s grief there: unimaginable grief. But also worry, concern. I know he’s seeing the same thing in my eyes. 

“Through here,” I whisper again, gesturing to the main bedroom. 

I’d set up a circle of chairs around the large, pillow filled bed, and after the men had lowered Brasidas into it, they all sat, looking exhausted. Thank the Gods that I’d already set out bread and wine for them, because I was horrifyingly still. I couldn’t escape the image. 

“Kassandra?”

I refuse to break in front of these men, so I turn up my dipped chin and gather every part of me. 

“Please sit by me, Kass,” he says, gently and knowingly. 

I will break later. So I sit, and I grasp his hand so tightly that I’m sure that I almost break it. Then I listen, and learn, and wait for my questions to be asked and answered.

“How many men lost?” Brasidas says, eyes turning about him.

One of the men, eyeing me suspiciously, begins with his report. “A hundred and twenty-five, strategos. On their way to Athens now as a fifth column. Otherwise, close to four hundred dead on our side and barely fifty on theirs.”

I fail to steady my breathing.

“And Sphacteria?” Brasidas ventures, rubbing his thumb over the back of my hand. 

“Lost,” was all that was held in reply.

“Brasidas,” one of the men says, eyes defiant and murderous. His name is Bion, meaning _life_. One of the hands that keeps my uncle at bay. “It’s time you told us how this happened.”

“Which part, Bion? The strategic loss or the limb loss?”

“Both, preferably. But perhaps just regarding the limb until the,” he gesticulates in my direction, “is out of earshot.”

I suppose I deserve that. I don’t react, and I squeeze Brasidas’ hand to ensure he doesn’t, also. He needs these men more than he needs me. They’ll protect his person and his interests with violent breath and sharp spears. And it seems that I can’t protect him at all. 

“I will tell you neither how I lost the foot, nor why.” A mild uproar meets his voice, and he calms it with a hand. “Don’t fret. We have to plan the next move. But for now, please leave me to sleep.”

Without grumbles, too well trained for them, anyway, the men file out. All except one, a young man who I’ve not seen before.

“Lysander,” Brasidas says, motioning the man towards us. He’s barely twenty, his eyes sharply blue and his hair sandy. “Please guard the house for me. Allow no one in, or if they can gainsay me, announce them.”

The man nods carefully, his intense gaze flicking to me for only a moment before following his strategos’ order. 

“Kassandra,” Brasidas says, voice cracking. 

I put his face between my hands, caressing along the hair that grows and gathering the tears as they form.

“What happened, strategos?”

“I…” he starts, gulping. “I couldn’t command the men at Sphacteria.”

“So it was lost?”

He nods, but then shakes his head, seemingly of thought. “I want guarantees from you.”

Strange. Unneeded.

“Why?” I reply. 

“I need guarantees that you will listen before you act.”

Stranger again. 

His unwavering promise comes back to me: how he’d not insisted that I reveal my need to him before he guaranteed it. Trust.

“Okay,” I whisper. Unable to help it, I push my mouth against his and feel him melt beneath me. Then the sound of pain as he overextends himself, attempting to pull me down. I push myself from him and place my weight next to him, eyes trailing over the skin I can at least see. Scars, a lattice of scars. The one that pained him is obvious: a gash, untidily bound, across his inner elbow, where a tendon had been cut. Another, close to his shoulder bone, seemingly unprotected by armour. More, again, down his chest. All red. All new. All angry. 

All where his armour should have protected him. 

“Tell me,” I say into the silence. 

“Your brother,” he says hesitantly. “He’s fine, don’t worry,” he continues, seeing the fear leap into my eyes. “But he came upon me while we rested, after Pylos was lost. He was in a rage.”

“Brasidas…” I whisper helplessly.

“I couldn’t fight him off, and I wouldn’t hurt him. Kassandra, it was almost as if…”

He trails off, unable or unwilling to finish the thought. 

“Almost as if he wanted to die,” I finish. I run my tongue over my teeth, settling my bone-deep ache. When would Sparta be satisfied?

“Is he the one who cut off your foot?” I ask.

“Yes,” he says. “And the rest. I wasn’t wearing armour.”

“Where is he now?”

“I told you to listen before you acted, Kass.”

“And you just told me that my brother cut off your foot. Where is he?”

“I’m sure he’s with your parents. He returned with us today.”

I let the breath I’d been holding out. “Then tell me what I must listen to, but then I will act, Brasidas.”

“He’s essentially a child. You know this, Kassandra. You’ve said it to me yourself. This is a very calculated act, can’t you see that?”

I only swallow. An acknowledgement, of sorts. 

“This was specifically brought about by your uncle to drive your brother away from you.”

I swallow again, but it’s more difficult. My throat has dried. 

“The men, your uncle’s men, gave him wine, and made jokes about me fucking you within earshot of him. They developed the rage very well, so that when he eventually was directed towards my tent, he was so riled up that he killed three of my men.”

Still, I listen. Damningly. 

“Your uncle wants him isolated. But I refuse, do you hear me?” Brasidas says, reaching for my hand again. 

“May I act now?” I thunder, unable to hear any more. He doesn’t flinch, but tilts his head just. Not in confusion, or pity, but in thought. He thinks that I’m going to kill my brother.

I stand from him, gently, calculatingly, placing the woolen blanket over him. 

“There now, husband,” I say, tucking the blanket in patronisingly. “You’ve been at war. You’ve been in battle, and lost. So settle yourself into your bed and try and sleep. Lysander will stay and I’m sure he will alert me if you need anything. But, for now, rest, and let the wolf of Sparta act.”

I finish with a light kiss to his forehead, gently caressing him. 

“Please, Kassandra…” he whispers. 

“You have a head for war, strategos. Let me worry about brothers and uncles and politics. It’s why I became your wife, after all.”

Placing my red cloak about my shoulders, an odd choice from the cupboard filled with grey wool, I send him a warm smile from across the room. 

Then I pay Lysander a golden coin to keep Brasidas to his bed, and to keep him safe as I venture from our farm. 

\--------

The house stands against the setting sun, full and light. I can hear pater’s voice booming in laughter and the sound of a dog barking from the outdoor kitchen. And why shouldn’t my father be happy? His son has returned from war, home and warm. Unable to stop myself, I feel for the blades that always adorn me. One, at my hip, and the other, tied to my thigh. 

I knock, channeling my fury into my smooth face. My grandmother used to tell me that a smooth face was the most damaging weapon. Like a pearl, or a mirror, reflecting harm back on the harmer. I don’t know if imperviousness is what I should be aiming for, but my instincts have never failed me before. 

“Kassandra!” mater says, pulling me towards her into a great hug. “Alexios, look, your sister is here!”

She knows as well as I do that he has no wish to see me. 

I change my mind as she bustles into the house. I allow my face to show what I’m feeling. If Gorgo was here, she’d likely wallop Alexios herself.

“You’re home,” I say, seeing him for the first time. Taller, bulkier, browner, eyes downcast. He was always a beautiful child, and I can see now that he’ll make a beautiful man.

My feet answer my unbidden question, and walk towards him. I don’t stumble, he doesn’t shy from me. Instead, I grasp him close to me and he responds in kind. 

When we were children, before the Agiad claimed us, we used to run through Sparta like the devil was on our tails. Chased, hunted, laughing, we would slide under tables and across benches, hiding from our mother and our helots. Giggling, sharing pilched berries, we would be inseparable. 

Then Gorgo claimed my grooming, and our uncle claimed his heir. And we stopped laughing after that.

But now, with him in my arms, sobbing into my clothes, I remember other times. Times when he almost lost his hand for stolen fruit, times when men were too forward with me, times when Taygetos threatened omens that would spell our fates. And we cried then. We held each other and cried for lost opportunities and lost…

For loss. 

And he cried now. Great, lingering tears, as I stroked his hair and counted the missing braids. 

“I’m sorry, Kassandra. I’ve been unforgivable.”

“I’m sorry, too, Alexios.”

“Have you seen him?”

“Yes.”

He doesn’t reply because he doesn’t have to. I know that he tried to kill my husband. But, as Brasidas’ words filter through, I also know that not many of our acts have ever been ours. Quiet manipulation, subtle jibes, pushes through doors and out of windows. Even our talents were groomed for. Perhaps I was meant for war, and Alexios for marriage? My knife cuts into my skin even now, as he holds himself against me. 

“Come now, children,” my mother says. “Lamb for dinner. Kassandra, your husband is welcome to join us.”

I ignore her, and for once, so does Al. 

“We have to talk,” I say gently. “But eat first. Sleep. I’ll come by tomorrow.”

He simply nods, and I know that he needs more; so much more. 

“Al, I promise you here, as your sister, that there is nothing on this green earth that would ever tear me from you. Nothing. Do you hear me?”

He nods again, but eyes meeting mine, rather than gracing the floor. I smile a little at him, rubbing his hand. 

I refuse, point blank, to let anything between us. Brasidas, our kin, anything. All can rot, as far as I’m concerned.


	9. Chapter Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the love!

We don’t talk much. He’s grown frustrated and angry at his own inability, but he’ll get used to it, I guess. He doesn’t really have a choice otherwise. I don’t tell him that, especially as he struggles to grow used to the brace my father made for him. 

I’m selfish. Predictably mindful of my own growing relief as I watch the red welts grow under his arm as the smooth wood develops callouses. It’s horrible; I’m horrible. 

But with his injury, he’s been discharged as a hoplite. He won’t face Athenian arms, his own throat exposed. He will command men from my house. He will grow to be an old man, surrounded by his children. 

Our children.

“Here,” I say, reaching for the bowl he holds in one hand as he swings the brace forward. 

“No, no,” he says, growl in his throat. “I can do it.”

I retract my hand, but not my eyes. Yes, he can do it. He’s been practicing, and the brace is a part of him now. The priests, being our sacred doctors, have grown used to lost limbs returning. This is Sparta, after all. We don’t discard our injured as other cities think we do. But Brasidas must heal more before he’s fitted with the stump that will replace his foot. 

Other things have changed, too. It’s been a few months, and Pylos and Sphacteria have taken much of the sting out of Sparta’s tail. She mourns the citizens lost to the fifth column. She grows weary of the souls burnt on the beaches of Messenia. But, still, under the current of loss, she breathes the fire that will see the rest of Hellas to its knees. Waiting, curling around the injuries inflicted, never forgetting the scars and the swords that cut them. 

“Alexios is coming by today,” I say once my husband is seated. 

“That’s a shame,” he replies, cutting a piece of lamb off the bone. “Because so is Lysander.”

“Hmm,” I agree, mouth tight. “I feel like my brother should get precedence over your boy.”

“And he has, and will, for the rest of their lives. Perhaps they could be friends?”

I laugh at that, and relish the twinkle in his eye at my humour. So few and far between. Our house has been full of rage, of tears, of things dropped then neglected. Pain. So much pain, in the night, when he wakes with phantom cramps and clutches at the missing limb. 

But his mind is not as sharp. Not as committed. 

“I’ve made a decision,” I say into the warm air. 

“Oh?” he replies, eyes flicking to my mouth. 

“Have you been wondering where Al and I have been disappearing to?”

_No, of course I haven’t,_ I bet he’s thinking. He knows where we go. Lysander follows us. 

“Yes,” he says instead. 

“He’s been pushing me to be faster, stronger.” I flex my shoulders under the morning light, letting the new muscles catch the sun. 

“Why?” A genuine question. 

“Because I asked him to,” I say, almost dismissively. “But that’s the decision. I’ve decided that I’m not only going to be your wife.”

“You and I both know that you were never _just_ my wife, Kassandra.”

“And now I’ll be your right hand, too. Your spear and your shield.”

“No.”

The words are flat in their refusal. I knew he’d resist. I’d expect nothing less of him. 

“Well that’s too bad, because I’m going to do it anyway.”

There it is: his fire, burning through his eyes. I’ve missed it sincerely in these months since Pylos. 

“I forbid it.”

“Are you going to forbid me from something I’ve already done, _kyrios_?”

“No, I’ll simply dismiss you from my side whenever you try and assume it.”

“Brasidas, you need someone you trust to be your eyes and ears. And your kopis and your spear and your shield. Let me be that person. Let me protect you.”

I almost have tears in my eyes at the thought. My own brother got through his defenses, and it was only because I let myself stray from protecting my own. I should never have let Alexios go to Messenia, either time. The first time destroyed him, and the second almost destroyed me. 

“I have men to protect me, Kass. I don’t want you in harm’s way.”

“You’ll need me in harm’s way if you’re to successfully pull off the next play.”

That piques his interest. The fire is still there, and I see that it has caused a flush along his collarbones. Usually that kind of response is reserved for when I move my hands down his back and kiss along his neck. 

I feel the flush running along my own neck now, in remembering. My mouth fills with saliva, even as my lips part slightly. 

Shaking my head, the thoughts unhelpful, I swallow. But then he reaches out his hand, trailing along my jaw. 

“I want to ask about the play,” he whispers as I lean into his touch. “But then, at the same time, I don’t.”

I shake my head again, flicking my cropped hair towards him and breaking the touch. We have limited time. 

“While you were away, my uncle tasked me with, what he termed, _the helot problem_.” I pause, taking a piece of bread from Brasidas’ plate and lifting it to my mouth. He’s fastidious with sauce, using the bread to soak the gravy from the lamb. It’s delicious and I let him watch me, hunger in his eyes. “He told me that he doesn’t like murdering helots, but that the population must be suppressed. I think my brother’s reaction to Messenia affected him, too.”

He listens closely, no emotion passing along his face. Well trained, that. 

“So he told me to think on the problem. And I have, quite extensively.”

“Kassandra…” he says softly, a warning. I ignore it.

“I’ve come to the conclusion that this could be good for both of you, you and my uncle. He wants you out of Sparta and away from your men, away from your influence. And you want to command again. But what drives helots to revolt, husband?”

“Brutality,” he answers simply. 

“So, we go to Messenia. We gather helots. We take Alexios with us, Lysander, too, and we train them. Put weapons in their hands. Because there’s another problem that’s been plaguing Sparta, and I think the stone I have in my pocket might kill both birds.”

He’s speechless, as I thought he would be. 

“Sparta has a helot problem, a Brasidas problem, an Athenian problem, and, quietly, an Agiad problem. And I can solve all of them.”

“You’ve said that three times now, wife, without actually offering a solution.”

“I just want to see you stew in the fact that you didn’t think of it first,” I reply, watching the smile leak across his face. “And I want guarantees from you.”

“No.”

“Stop saying no to me!” I yelp, very unstately. Like a child.

“I want to know what they are first.”

“Then my solution can rot. We’ll stay in Sparta. You will never have revenge, the Kings will continue to murder your kin, and Athens will grace our valley before the next winter. Your choice.”

I shrug, taking a swig of mint cordial. Before, I probably would have walked away from him, letting him catch me and kiss my words from me. But now, it would add an unnecessary resentment from him. I don’t watch his face, but know he’s angry with me. A tasty carrot, that I successfully dangled, is within his reach if only he could swallow his fear. 

Because I have grown stronger and faster and, if I’m completely honest, more brutal. Alexios and I always sparred, and I used to beat him. But now, as his skill has grown and as mine has been left to wander without discipline, I’m playing catch up. It’s freeing in a completely different way to using my mind. And it’s let my brother talk, too. 

“You want to be my right hand?” he says, low like a growl. 

“I want to use my spear to do what you would have done if you’d been on the field, Brasidas. I want to be what stands between you and threats to you.”

“I’m training Lysander for that task.”

“And continue to. But he doesn’t also sleep in your bed, then get up and hear what’s said in both my uncle’s house and the Apella. I’m trained in more than physical threats to you. Let me protect you.”

His eyes go to the window, his ears picking up footfalls before mine do. 

“Okay,” he whispers, still looking out the window. “But your solution?”

“A helot army, to starve Athenians of their silver mines to the north. No silver, no supplies from their port. You at the command of your countrymen, raised and dispatched by you, with spears in their hands and a task in their mind. Take the Macedonian silver mines. Starve the silver.”

He gazes at me, his eyebrows knitted together, and they don’t shift even as Lysander’s voice echoes from the yard. 

“Helots?” he whispers.

“Helots. Train them, make them yours. Sparta destroys their lives. Generations of women, boys and men with the memory of blood. Sparta could make them loyal with honey, but won’t. So you will.”

“And then?”

“Then you plan further. Take Macedonia and bring our army home. Place them among Spartan families. Have them train their class. Then, when they rise, be beside Pleistarkhos as he falls.”

“That’s incredibly dangerous.”

“Life is dangerous, strategos.”

“You would stand by me?”

I swallow, loud and harshly. “Leave my brother and my father be. Do that, and I’ll stand beside you.”

“Not your mother?” he asks quietly.

I shake my head. “She offered my brother and I up like a plattered pig. I’ll never forgive her for it.”

“A lot can go wrong.”

“And we will reach it when we get to it. But, for now, we go to Messenia to collect and train the helots. We take Lysander, Alexios, and your chosen men. We take Macedonia, even so far as Amphipolis in Thake.”

Lysander becomes more insistent, going so far as to tap on the door. I stand to open it for him, but Brasidas captures me as I pass him. He draws me onto his lap, caressing along my shoulders and pressing his fingertips into my hips. I kiss him thoroughly, us both finally silent as I forget that anything else exists. I’m still, consistently, surprised by this. By my surety as I touch him, how convinced I am that this is right. A low groan escapes me as his hands travel under the fabric of my chiton, but then they still, and I feel him come back to himself. 

He felt these muscles last night. He strokes my flesh almost everyday. But I suppose their intention has changed. These aren’t simply the muscles that round my body, the signifier of health and wellbeing, but now, they have purpose. They’re built for him. Only for him. 

“Strategos, Agiad?” Lysander calls.

I stand to retrieve the new citizen.

“Lysander,” I greet, opening the door for him. 

“Kassandra,” he says, bowing to his waist. He enters the house and grasps Brasidas’ arm, the older man still seated. “Strategos.”

I sit too, leaving the front door open. Alexios will be here soon. 

“How goes the barracks?” Brasidas asks, gesturing that Lysander should partake in breakfast. He looks deferentially to me, and I nod only a little. He’s still new at this. 

Lysander is a mothakes, like Brasidas. Newly graduated from the agoge and firmly under the wing of the strategos. He was born here in Sparta, one of the helots on this farm, until he showed an interest in a strategy game and Brasidas organised his sponsorship. Though not his sponsor, Brasidas has been the one to manage his training and ensure he becomes what Sparta needs him to be. Aside from that, Lysander’s mother remains here. Her knowledge of the gardens is phenomenal: she could grow anything in almost any ground, and has relished watching her son grow, even if from afar. 

He’s still wary of me. I haven’t betrayed Brasidas yet, but he sits waiting. 

“It’s quiet. Sad almost. The men need direction, which they aren’t getting.”

“The plains of Attika are still receiving rolling troops?” Brasidas asks.

“Yes. Newer hoplites. Timon has been tasked with the latest deployment. The King’s decision. Arkhidamos has decided to take part in the war he started.”

“Good,” Brasidas replies. “It’ll keep his eyes off of us.”

Lysander’s eyes flick to me again. Treasonous words, almost. 

We eat in silence until a barking dog draws all of our heads towards the yard. Alexios. 

I stand immediately, knowing the violence that will erupt between my brother and the young spartiate behind me. They didn’t like each other at the agoge, and certainly don’t like each other now. 

“Al,” I call, walking out into the sun. 

“Kass,” he calls back. He walked here, armoured and without a horse.

“Before you come inside, I just wanted to warn you that Lysander is here.”

His face darkens almost immediately. “Then I won’t come inside.”

“Yes, you will,” I reply. Like stone: unflinching and unyielding. “I have to speak to you both with Brasidas. We have a task to complete.”

“I don’t want anything to do with it if he’s a part of it.”

Alexios is only coming to Messenia so that I can have him close. I simply do not trust my family to care for him. My uncle is brutal, my mother is her brother’s sister before she’s anything else, and my father will crumble under the glare of either of them. No. Better he comes with me. 

“You will, please,” I say, softening. “I need your support when I go to Messenia.”

“What?” he says sharply, all of the fear his body can conjure contained in the single syllable. 

“I’m going to Messenia with Brasidas. He’s going to…” Not raise an army. Not arm the helots. Not defeat our uncle. Not generate his own country. “... begin on his plan to take the Athenian Silver mines in Makedonia. He needs me to go with him, and I need you to come with me.”

“There’s no place for you in Messenia, Kassandra. It’s dangerous.”

“Yes. That’s why I need my brother to protect me.”

He eyes me. He probably knows me better than I know myself. He knows that the sugar lacing my tongue is manipulative. Likely, he said that there was no place in Messenia for me to light my fire, but I refuse to allow him to do that. 

I grasp his arm, pulling him into the house and pushing him into a chair on the opposite side of the table to Lysander. I sit next to Brasidas, taking a plate full of meat and shoving it under my brother’s nose. 

“Agiad,” Lysander greets icily. 

“Helot,” Alexios replies. 

I don’t clip him over the ear, though I’m sorely tempted. 

“You’re both coming with us to Messenia,” Brasidas says. Not a question: simply a statement of fact. “We’ve lost too many men from Pylos and Sphacteria, and my plans to take Athens are risky. So I’m going to propose that we waste helots on it.”

His words are met with, shall we say, a difference of opinion. Alexios brays about the Kings’ authority and how we need it. Lysander doesn’t shout, but can’t help his repeat of the word ‘waste’ and the derision that underpins it. 

Brasidas just looks at his hands, waiting for them to quiet down. Like he would do to children, I suppose.

I can’t help the roar in my heart as I watch him. I know now that I couldn’t let him go even if I tried. 

“We’re going to take helots north, to Makedonia, and we’re going to take the tributaries of Athens. Then, we will prevent their money from reaching them, starving them from the inside of their city.”

“And I suppose I’m needed to ensure that the slaves agree?” Lysander says. “Send in the wolves and the sheep cower,” he continues, gesturing to me and my brother, “send in the sheep with teeth and their friends may be fooled.”

“You’re coming with me because you’re being trained to be a Lieutenant, Lysander. And this is a part of that.”

“Then why is he coming?” he says.

“Alexios is coming because he is being trained to be King.”

“Why is Kassandra coming?”

Brasidas is almost at the end of his temper. “My _wife_ is coming because I asked her to.”

“I’m coming,” I stress, eyes flicking between them, “because it was my idea.”

“You see? Do you see yet, Brasidas?” Lysander says. “They will murder our kin like they did before. This one has blood quite literally on his hands.”

Alexios flinches, but doesn’t retaliate. Doesn’t deny. 

“It isn’t a ruse, Lysander,” Brasidas says quietly. 

“It is! They will choose the promising men and send them to the temple!”

“Enough, boy!” Brasidas growls. He tries to rise to his feet, a reflex action, his arms propping him up. I reach for him automatically but he waves me away, frustrated.

“You’re blinded by your love for her, commander. You’ve lost your way.”

Alexios flinches again, but finds his voice. “Why helots, then?” he asks, face turning to me. “It was your idea, so, why helots?”

“Because it’s a risky venture. Uncle won’t risk citizens, especially under Brasidas’ command after Pylos.”

“Because they’re expendable,” Lysander says under his breath.

“Yes, fine. Because they’re expendable,” I repeat. “And because they will happily fight for Brasidas.”

“To what end? Just to route Athens?” Al asks.

“Yes,” I lie. “And it will work. We will bring Athens to its knees.”

“Helots are already on their knees,” Lysander says, dripping venom. “What will it take to get them to rise?”

Dangerous words.

Alexios looks at me sharply. He was honed just as I was. Still, he looks and listens for the danger to the Agiad. 

“Alexios, can you accompany me outside, please?” I say, tilting my head towards him. 

I let him follow me into the garden and down towards the creek. Water soothes, even if it freezes my skin. I take my sandals off and leave them on the bank with my grey cloak, not wanting to sully the hem with the mud.

“So,” Alexios says, sitting next to me. “What the fuck was that about?”

“Which part?” I reply, not looking at him. 

“Umm, all of it.”

“Well, one, you don’t have the right to question Brasidas, remember?”

He rolls his eyes, but I’d been very specific. He was apologetic, distraught. Yes, he’d been goaded. Yes, he felt he was protecting me. Yes, I should have been more open to him. 

But my husband is in pain constantly, and it was simply Alexios’ acts that made it so. He wasn’t allowed to question him. He wasn’t allowed to touch him, even. All agreed sanctions in exchange for my forgiveness.

“Fine,” he replies. “Then I’ll question you, instead. Do you love him?”

“Who?” I say, dodging. 

“The helot,” he grumbles. 

It’s easy to answer. 

It’s hard to answer.

“Yes.”

He only nods. “If I’d have known that, I probably wouldn’t have minded the talk of the men so much. But they implied that Brasidas took you against your permission. That’s why I cut him.”

“I know, Al. I know that I needed to be more open to you.”

“I think we’ve both been hoodwinked, Kassandra,” he says quietly, almost to the wind.

I turn my head to him more fully, but don’t speak. I don’t want to direct him away from the thoughts in his mind.

“I don’t think Brasidas was ever our enemy.”

And there it is. Voiced. Acknowledged.

“How does that make you feel?” I ask gently.

“Like my life is a lie. The people I killed, sister. The small ones, now without eyes, searching Hades. I didn’t have to do it. It’s connected, you know?” He finishes with a light tone, like he was speaking of growing flowers. 

“There are no options to us,” he whispers, reaching to the dirt and taking a handful. “I’m the heir. Without me, the Agiad is lost.”

The flashes again. Mountains and running. No, this life has not claimed us until we’re dead in the ground. And we have a choice until that occurs. 

“You’ll come with us to Messenia?” I say. “I don’t want to go without you, Al.”

“Yes, Kass. I don’t know what game you’re playing, and I suspect Lysander doesn’t either, but I’ll stand with you. That’s why I’ve been training you, after all.”

I lean my head against his shoulder and he puts his arm around my back. 

“Why do you hate Lysander?” I whisper. I’ve never asked.

He huffs. “I guess I don’t now that I have to work with him.”

“No,” I say. “Not an acceptable answer.”

“Okay fine. Because I liked him, and he was a helot, and he hated that I cared.”

“Really!” I yelp as I watch the blush rise up his neck. 

“Yes. Things always get more difficult as you grow older, as I’ve found out.”

I lean away from him and watch the sun light his hair. 

“Kassandra?”

“Mmhmm.”

“I’m happy that you love him. I’m happy for you. And, eventually, I want you to tell me why we’re _actually_ going to Messenia.”

“Agreed,” I reply.

\-------

I am an Agiad. I am the niece of a King and a granddaughter of another. I wear my red cloak and my golden brown eyes proudly, my brow clear and my mind sharp.

But here, in the darkness, where the stone sings of the warm day past, I’m simply me. A woman of twenty-two. A woman with olive skin and cropped hair and soft hands and calloused feet. I can laugh when I want, cry when I want, speak and sing and yell when I want. Without purpose, or for it. I can be myself, without yearning for an easier life.

I am both these things: the royal and the simple. The crown and the peasant. The Heraclid in me is breaking in two, aghast at my choices. She is throwing down her own shields, begging my mouth to stop its treason. But I won’t. 

I won’t because the rest of me, the part I let free, is so grossly, unquestionably glad that she can love and scream and whimper without fear. And Brasidas lets me be that person. Alexios lets me be that person. 

So when Brasidas eventually falls asleep, his wax tablet in his hands and his stylus forgotten among the bedsheets, I stroke his face as I smother my Agiad side. Violence and patience, rolled into one action. 

A small smile is all he gives me as I pack away our plans and sleep. 

\--------

My uncle was going to make this difficult. 

I stood before him, hands unbothered and unclenched, mouth a thin line of disapproval. 

“A fine idea, Kassandra,” he says, gesturing to the scroll I’d presented him with. “But training helots?”

“Specifically chosen by me and Alexios for their loyalty, uncle. Only the loyal ones will have a chance of rising above their station.”

“Rising? How high?” he asks.

“High enough to claim that they were trained by the best. Otherwise, not high at all.”

He isn’t convinced. He’s going to reject the plan. It was up to me to convince him, and I’m failing. 

I swallow, and I know that he hears it. It’s a mistake.

“Let them strive? That’s your plan?”

“Yes, King. Hence why the heir and I will only seek out the most loyal of helots. Others will see their loyalty rewarded with service, then with an increase in their station. Hence solving your helot problem.”

“And Brasidas will lead them?” he asks, deadpan.

“With Alexios and I keeping a close eye on him. Since your plan to kill him failed, perhaps something else could be arranged. But the helots will trust him, and not stray from Sparta once they’re trained.”

“You? You will keep a close eye on him?”

“As my duty to the Agiad, it is my specific _pleasure_ to keep an eye on him.”

I bow as I say it, hiding the anger in my eyes. Anger cleanses. Fury burns. 

“No, Kassandra. You may not go to Messenia. Alexios will go.”

“No,” I whisper, shocked. 

“It isn’t safe for a woman.”

“Spartan law permits me to accompany my husband,” I say, gathering my shoulders. 

“Only pregnant wives may accompany their husbands,” he says, with a dismissive wave of his hand. 

“And Spartan law permits me.” I stare straight at him; through him. He can’t deny me. He’s shocked, just as I was. 

I haven’t even told Brasidas yet. I wasn’t going to, not until the last moment, so as to not distract him. 

His expression doesn’t last long. Eventually, he simply smiles.

“Many blessings, Kassandra. Another possible heir, is he not?”

It feels as though a hand has constricted my heart, diving through my ribs and seeking out the organ. He is. He is an heir. Just as Alexios is. 

“Possibly, King,” is all I can say, smile plastered onto my face. 

“Your husband has his leave for his helot army.”

He waves me out, and I go, shaking.


	10. Chapter Ten

The mare that has taken me through most of my adolescence was left behind. Her shine was for royalty, my mother told me, and I would ride a war horse, now. 

She was furious with me, and rightly so. She doesn’t know about the pregnancy. She doesn’t know that I’m anything but apathetic to Brasidas. No. She’s angry about Alexios. Her temper is awash with red and gold, spitting injustice and how we’d both betrayed her. How I’d betrayed her. 

I could only swallow my retorts. Alexios was almost a grown man. I’d asked him to come to Messenia, but I hadn’t forced him. But, what I had done was achieve my uncle’s agreement prior to discussing it with my parents, as per convention. At the heart of my mother’s distress was the acknowledgement that she was no longer the leading force in Al’s life. It was her choice to send him to the Krypteia early in order for him to avoid the fields. It was her word that led to a sixteen year old boy to be bathed in blood.

_It’s the way of it,_ she’d told me. _You, too, must learn your place._

Unflappable loyalty to the Agiad and Sparta must be a warped mirror. Could she not see that even her own blinded loyalty to our King was the same as my blind loyalty to my brother? That I protect him above all else? That I am her, simply with a more forgiving father? 

My stomach heaves at remembering her spat words. If I did this, if I took Alexios from Sparta, from his duty, then she would never forgive me. I simply nodded, and turned my heel from her. What else could I have done? Explained that I have a father while Brasidas has none? Explained that Sparta’s obsession with power was emptying her people? No. So, instead, I walked away from her. 

My stomach heaves and I vomit, right into the creek. Hidden. Quiet. Allowed time to wash my face and my hands before we continue our journey west. The vomiting was getting better. Brasidas still doesn’t know. 

But he wasn’t stupid, not after Elis. Lysander was just over the next rise, listening for me. 

“Kassandra?” he calls, listening to my silence.

“Fine,” I reply. A call every minute, and a response within ten seconds or alarms were raised. Lysander still didn’t trust me, but even he fears his commander’s temper if something were to befall me. 

“Did you retch?” he asks, voice clear over the babbling of the creek.

Why lie?

“Yes, I’m not used to the gait of a larger horse, I think.”

I rise from the creek, wiping my mouth with the rag I keep in my pocket. It’s gross and I have to replace it once we reach the chora. I hear his steps getting closer, stomping down the hill. Turning, trying to smile and forget my mother’s acidic words to me.

“I’m okay, Lieutenant. I swear it.”

“Good, because if I was to arrive with you less than okay, I think Brasidas would put my head on a spike.”

I laugh, lightening the mood. “Perhaps he’d just throw you into the sea.”

His smile falters a little. Oh, I’d forgotten. Helot children aren’t taught to swim.

We walk back to the horses together, the little brigade of men standing to attention. I smile at them, ignoring how much I just want to lie down in the shade. These men will make the difference as to whether this plan succeeds, or fails. They were the commanders who Brasidas had brought from Sparta. I look at their faces, acknowledging each one and reminding myself of their names. Young, all of them. Some of them I recognised, some I’d seen as faces on others: older men and women who worked our farm. 

Mothakes. All of them. Every one had been born a helot and given Spartan citizenship. A notable choice. My uncle wouldn’t have missed it. Returning to Sparta with this army will grow a little harder. 

I mount my horse, needing no assistance though Lysander offers it, and turn his head towards the west. Brasidas and Alexios had gone ahead, scouting for a training ground on the western foothills of Taygetos. Another reason my mother will never forgive me: Alexios left without saying goodbye to her, without even telling her that he was going. I try to place myself in her position, but find myself unable to. Unconsciously, my hand drifts across my middle, protective. 

No. I would never allow this child to be bloodsport for Sparta. I will not. I refuse. I…

“Agiad? There, below,” Lysander points down the cliff into the valley unfolding beneath us. “See the red flags? That’s where the commander has set up camp. We’ll be there this afternoon.”

“Thank you, Lysander. I appreciate you escorting me.”

He salutes me, bowing his head as he passes my horse. Respectful, but not warm. Never warm. I might have to work on that.

So I venture towards him, pacing myself so our horses share a gait.

“Tell me about your mother, Lysander,” I say, conversationally.

He eyes me suspiciously. “You know my mother, Agiad.”

“Yes, but I want to hear about her from you,” I reply, looking at my hands. “I find the impression that people give me is different to who they actually are. Something I want to change.”

“Ah, well,” he says, also looking down at his hands. “She can weave fairly well.”

“See, I didn’t know that.”

“That’s because as the wife of the house, _you’re_ meant to weave. It isn’t work for helots, no matter their skill.”

He’s right, but he didn’t have to say it. I can weave very well, and spin even better, but don’t. Too much of me can be revealed in the cloth: flaws, nubs, uneven warp threads drumming. Mater was savage in her critique. We buy the cloth we need. 

“I’ve been looking for a weaver,” I say confidently. “I don’t weave, as you say. Terrible wife, that I am.” I sneak a look at him and see him smirk. Perhaps this man is a better friend to Brasidas than he’s letting on. Perhaps Brasidas tells him secrets. “So I’ll approach your mother when we’re next home, and she can take on the burden.”

He takes the reins of his horse more forcefully in his hands. “Any kindness you show is detrimental to her, you see that, yes?”

“How?” I reply, confused. 

“Because it creates an imposition on Sparta. They must take something from her if you gift her something. Your city doesn’t play favourites.”

I’m silent after that, gently walking my horse down the hill. But then curiosity seizes me. Lysander will tell me things that Brasidas never would.

“Please,” I say softly. “Please tell me of the helots. If my brother is to be King, then he could have the power to improve their lot. I have influence too, perhaps I can help in a meaningful way?”

“Oh, I highly doubt that your brother would help the lot of the helots. He threw cabbages with the rest of them, drew blood with the rest of them.”

“Brasidas told me that he almost quit the agoge when he was younger.”

“We all quit. All the men riding with you now chose to quit. But we aren’t permitted to. If we quit, then we’re killed. I was only saved by Alexios.”

He blanches, like he’s revealed too much. 

“What do you mean?” I whisper, leaning towards him. 

“I, ah.”

“It’s okay, Lysander. Please tell me.”

I don’t know whether he’s protecting himself, or perhaps my brother. Maybe he sees this as a betrayal of himself, but, eventually, under my hard gaze, he wilts. 

“I was in the barracks with… with him, sleeping. And the Krypteia came for me. I’d begged my tutors to quit, and it seems they’d agreed. Alexios was the only reason they didn’t slice my throat that night.”

“When was this?”

“When I was about sixteen. He’s younger than me though. I don’t know. He joined the others after that. But he always threw smaller fruit than they did, derided me for my actual flaws rather than made up ones. And I hate him for it.”

I’m almost certain that this wasn’t my brother’s act. The Krypteia are owned by the Kings: spies, muscle, brutality. Those men would have reported my brother’s insolence to my uncle, and my uncle would have…

Alexios would have just been named the heir. To be protecting a helot from justice as he did would have nearly cost him his life. But Pleistarkhos had no other choice: no other boys that could have become King. 

“My brother might surprise you,” I whisper.

He just shakes his head. “He has blood on his hands now. He was Krypteia, might still be, lurking.”

“That wasn’t him,” I say desperately. “That was the Agiad.”

He cocks his eyebrow at me, incredulously. “And… you are…?”

Agiad. 

I turn from him and become suddenly very interested in the rocks lining the road. 

“Look, Kassandra, I know that Brasidas loves you. I don’t know why, no offence, but he sees fit to look past your family and how much damage they’ve done. But I can’t. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologise, Lysander. There’s really no need. I’m sorry for all that you’ve lost simply for being born as you have been. If there is anything I can do that will make life easier for you, or for your kin, please tell me.”

He’s suspicious again. I can almost hear the cogs turning as he stares me down. I return the glare.

“Stop distracting our commander, so he can actually command, perhaps?”

I scoff a laugh, then feel the road even out into the valley. We’ll be there soon.

\-------

Better yet, Brasidas has already assembled two hundred or so men from the surrounding helot villages. He’s been busy. 

“Wife,” he says, taking me towards him with one arm as the other leans on the brace. His whispers tickle my ear, and I know he leans too close on purpose. I let my eyes droop as his smell engulfs me and I remember how intoxicating he’s always been. “I missed you,” he whispers. “You look well, so I hope the ride was to your liking?”

“The horse’s gait didn’t agree with me,” I whisper back, rubbing my cheek along his jaw. “And I missed you too. A month is too long.”

“Well we’ve made progress, as you can see. Was your uncle upset?”

“That you left without permission? No, he didn’t even notice, that’s how much this means to him. My mother was, though.”

“Why?”

Alexios appears behind Brasidas, and I let his arms swallow me. “Because _you_ left without permission,” I answer, jabbing him in the ribs. “I got a tongue lashing.”

“Yes, well. As Brasidas says, we’ve made progress.”

I look between them, question in the air. Alexios was suitably penitent, Brasidas was arguably devoid of fury. My husband downright refused revenge, knowing the power that an easy few words and misplaced anger can have. 

“Friends, Kassandra,” Brasidas says, looking at my brother. “It was easy once he stopped apologising.”

“Strategos, Agiad,” Lysander says, walking behind me. 

“Lysander,” Brasidas says. Al stays silent, for once. “Good ride?”

“Oh, yes. We only had to stop a few times, mainly for, ah, well,” he looks at me deferentially.

“I had motion sickness from the horse,” I explain, throwing out my hands in a shrug.

Concern rings both of their sets of eyes, but neither questions further. It occurs to me that if I had said that to a group of mothers, none of them would have believed me. They would have probed, asked inane questions about the benefits of cotton cloth over woolen, allowed me to relax and then collected the information and formed the opinion of my likely pregnancy. Not these men, though. I breathe a small sign of relief. I’m not ready to distract Brasidas, yet. 

“She was fine after a few splashes of water,” Lysander says. “Yes, Brasidas,” he says, answering an unasked question, “I watched her.”

Unwillingly, I acknowledge the truth of it. For this to work, we all have to be in partnership. All four of us. The weak spots were between me and Alexios, and Lysander. Those relationships needed work, even if Lysander and Alexios had sworn to hate each other. Then again, I’d sworn to hate Brasidas, too.

I was anxious, jumpy. As much as I knew the politics needed finesse and work, and how integral it was to this task, I was also acutely aware of my husband’s presence. A month away was too much.

“Alexios, perhaps you could show Lysander the new recruits?” Brasidas was looking at Lysander when he said it, knowing the younger man would protest. But, instead, Lysander accepts the order but not before he glances at me. _Distraction._

Part of me relaxes. It was a day’s ride from Sparta, and we’d left when it was dark this morning. I’d not eaten all day, I was filthy, I was sick, and I needed to lie down. 

And absolutely none of that is on my mind as my brother and his companion walk away. Only the smell of sweat, the wooded scent of his hair, hearing his own swallow as his eyes follow mine. 

We still don’t touch each other in public. The Agiad has spies. I’m one of them.

“My tent is this way,” he says, motioning. I would expect nothing less than the largest tent in the array, but instead, he directs me to a simply triangled canvas. I could barely sit up in it. I try not to be a snob, and so keep my ideas of the, ah, humble lodgings, to myself.

He twists his body as he enters so he can sit and shift himself backwards. I watch him do it and see how practiced he is. This part hasn’t phased him at all: he’s reached the point where this has become a part of him rather than a loss. 

He settles himself among the red silk and purple wool, opulence that has only just drawn my attention. No, this is not humble. He did this for me.

“Vassilokore,” he murmurs, reaching to take my hand and draw me to him.

“A month is too long, strategos,” I say, sitting next to him and grasping at his body. Chest, arms, shoulders, neck: all of him needs my touch. Then comes the relief. No new scars. No battles fought. 

He lifts my chin so my eyes bore into his, the dark brown of a field under night. Searching, forever searching him, to make sure he is whole and well and unbroken. Searching for the truth within him, so that I can either banish his doubt, or draw my spear to impose on those who sought to damage him.

“My love,” he whispers. 

“I don’t want to have to reunite every again,” I say. “I’m sick of it.”

“I think we’d set fire to the world if they let us stay together.” He kisses the side of my lips, where my cheek meets my chin, gently and reverently. 

“Then I’ll burn it. I’m not leaving you again.”

He turns my face and kisses the other side, religiously feeling away the lines of worry that have developed.

“You’re beautiful, Kassandra. Do you remember when I first told you that?”

His mouth is teasing me, lingering and hardening in a line across my jaw and down my neck. 

Yes. I remember. I remember the lie it felt like. 

“It’s a shame, really,” he continues between kisses. “Because I think I prefer your hair long.”

“And I prefer you on your back,” I reply, ravenous. I push him down, gently as I can. He’s wearing his leather armour, of course. Why make things easy. Slowly, holding myself back from him, I straddle his lap and reach for the ties of his wrists. 

“I meant it, you know,” he says, looking at me intently. “I meant every word I said to you that day.”

“You told me that you would hold my heart. It was a lie, then.”

“It didn’t take long to make it true. I saw the control you were under, and I sought to break it.”

“And, instead, I’m only guided by the promise of your skin against mine.”

He takes my hands, stopping my fiddling. 

“I’ll never ask you to do anything against your will, Kass.”

His tone is serious, like something has lit within him.

“I know, Brasidas.”

“I swear never to manipulate you, ever.”

I look at him, searching him again. Why say this now?

“I know, my love. That’s why I gave you my heart, and I did _give_ it to you, strategos. You came to me tenderly, thoughtfully. You’re the only one who ever has.”

He releases his breath and it falls over my face. 

“And not only that,” I continue, removing his bracers, “you also spent hours filling a bath for me to only spend five minutes in it.”

He laughs then, a great booming laugh. Tension eases out of him as I slip his shoulder guard over his head and survey his bare chest below me. Strong; assured: mine.

I kiss him small at first, tasting him like a salted broth after a hard winter. Then I open my mouth a little, letting his energy pulse towards me. Just us. Just this. Nothing else. 

“I love you, so much, Brasidas,” I whisper, not letting the words choke on the way out. 

“I love you, too,” he replies, eyes fierce. 

Now would be the time to tell him. Now would be when to tell him of my months without blood. How I’d not even noticed until a small word from Aiche, my mother’s house helot, when she asked how I was getting on without soap to wash the rags. I’d lied, and said that I’d been supplied some. But then I counted, and then I knew. 

He’s perfectly relaxed, his hands pressing into my hips. Not a worry or pain shadows across his face. This news might bring both to him. Might distract him. Might mean that he insists that I return to Sparta. I don’t know if I’m underestimating him. Probably. In all likelihood, he would want to keep me close. 

It’s been long enough for me to know for certain, but not so long that he would notice swelling or the like. My moods were fairly normal, I was more tired but that could be the journey, and I was vomiting but even that was subsiding. 

I kiss him instead. Cowardly. Unwilling to change what’s between us, even though this child would never be so. A part of him, and a part of me. 

His chiton lifts easily as he undoes the clips of my shoulders. It isn’t a big space, so I keep my chest down and against him as I rock back and forth, teasing him forward. But he’s changed his tact these last few months of easy reckoning. I no longer am able to take the lead, because he insists on bossing me around instead. 

He pushing me around so that my back graces the silk, cool to my skin. A wave of nausea assaults me as he moves me quickly, but I concentrate and feel it dissipate as his own kisses begin to train down my front and towards the cleft of one hip. 

“You’ve lost weight, my darling,” he says, tone concerned. 

If I could keep food down, I would have. 

“I’m sure it’ll pass; I’ve been stressed.”

He kisses the bone of my hip again, his tongue lingering. “Once I’m finished, and we’re lying side by side, I need you to tell me why you’re lying to me.”

I gasp as he moves lower, kissing each part of my inner thigh. “That’s fair,” I whisper. I might tell him; or I might lie again. I haven’t decided. 

He relishes in making me laugh as much as making me yelp. The tickling becomes fiercer, even as his tongue reaches the cleft between my legs and I shudder. 

“Quiet, quiet,” he whispers. “Or else the men might think I’m bedding my wife happily.”

“It’s a curse, the way the sun shines from you when you love somebody. Some may think it a secret even as the light radiates.”

“And you are radiant, Kass. _Selene_.”

He doesn’t interrupt again, his hands moving inside me as he works his mouth at the top. Bliss, almost pain, as I try to keep my sounds contained. Impossible. Absolutely impossible. 

Once I arc my back, feeling the swell build to its height and my heart bursting, he leaps to his knees, keeping his hands on me and pushing his mouth down on mine, silencing my screams. I pull him home, rolling with the waves until his own breath escapes his nose angrily. 

“That wasn’t _really_ quiet, Kassandra,” he says, breath light. 

He pushes himself into me again and I yelp, almost barking the relief of having him close and here and happy and healthy. Then again, and again, until he is making more noise than me.

I shush him with a laugh, knowing that there is absolutely no one around the tent at all. No one would dare presume to listen to the commander bed the sister to the future King. But it’s a game in the end: how much can we give each other until we’re unable to keep the noise contained. 

He places his hand back between us, stroking faster and faster as my hips tilt up towards him. Then, like a river valley breaking its banks, I yell into his shoulder, attempting to muffle myself as he rides out the lunges that bring him home. 

Panting, stroking his hair, his shoulders, his upper arm, down to his lower back. 

“You’re my home, Brasidas,” I whisper. “I can’t be without you.”

“And you’re mine, Kassandra. Always.”

Then I fall asleep, watching his shoulders rise and lower in their rhythm, lying next to me and encompassing my whole world. 

\--------

I fell asleep to the smooth sounds of Brasidas’ breathing, and wake to yelling. Angry, violent yelling as an argument comes closer and closer to the tent. My eyes only open when Brasidas moves from beneath my head and the warmth of the silk greets me. 

“Bloody children,” he growls, throwing on his chiton. I can only nod, still groggy.

“...you’re just WRONG, Alexios! That will not work.”

“It _did_ work, you mangy helot! The men here came here because of it!”

“You mean to tell me that each man here is only here under duress?”

“No! But it helped!”

“You’re a fucking idiot, Agiad. You have no idea how these communities work.”

“Well, I would know if you fucking told me! But, instead, you just criticise, criticise, criticise. Even my armour isn’t beneath your reckoning!”

“Enough!” Brasidas yells, cutting through the argument. 

“Commander, tell this idiot that threatening helots is not the way forward for this army,” Lysander says, respectful but furious.

I find my chiton among the wool and throw it over my shoulders. The belt strapped, I venture out of the tent and towards the hubbub. They’ve attracted a crowd. 

“Some helots need threatening, Lysander,” Brasidas says carefully. 

“Especially if this army is to remain loyal to Sparta,” Alexios continues, gesticulating almost wildly. 

“They must be loyal to their commander first, and these ones only fear him!”

“I said, enough,” the strategos says. Quietly, but firmly. Both are his Lieutenants, both are under his command, both stay silent at his word. “Both of you, go to the edge of the wood and wait there. I will be there shortly. The rest of you,” he says, now addressing the crowd, “don’t you all have work to do?”

They disperse, and Brasidas turns to me. “Follow them, please,” he says quietly. “Make sure that they don’t kill each other.”

I nod, venturing, barefoot, into the forest after them. I don’t have to track them: they’re still arguing. 

“...why would you say that, when we both know that you don’t believe it?”

“Because it’s the truth, at least for these ones. They can’t even hold a kopis.”

“It’s forbidden. Helots are not allowed to either hold or learn weaponry. That’s why they tried to kill me in the agoge, because I couldn’t return to my old life with the knowledge I had.”

“And that’s why I stopped them. We need men who will actually be able to take down Athenians, not just march and not just cower.”

Lysander is silent for a moment. I pause too. This feels intimate. 

“Is this what you did as Krypteia? Made men fear you in order to get what you want?”

“No,” Alexios eventually whispers. “They only made me kill. I never gained trust and I never broke it. I couldn’t…” he gasps, and I can almost hear his tears. “I don’t remember. I don’t remember coming home. I don’t remember Pylos. I shut my mind down and tried to forget the killing, but instead I forgot everything else.”

Oh, my boy. 

I hear footfalls behind me and turn to see Brasidas’ figure among the trees. The time for eavesdropping has passed. 

“Lysander, Alexios,” I say, emerging. They’re about two metres from each other, with Al sitting on a log and Lysander watching him. 

“Kassandra,” Alexios says, voice tight. 

“Are we friends yet?” I ask.

They look at each other, and Lysander uncrosses his arms. Maybe. 

“You two need to get your shit together!” Brasidas yells, almost jumping into the clearing, his brace under his arm. 

“Brasidas-,” I start to say.

“You’re both commanders, _my_ commanders. Differences of opinion are to be voiced quietly, in the war room, and out of earshot of the men! What were you thinking!”

“We were-.”

“-I thought that-”

“-and he said-.”

“Enough! I’ve had enough! Go into that forest and bring me out some game. Give me your spears, you’re only permitted to have daggers. If you come out without a meal and without being in each other’s good graces, then don’t come back at all!”

Both men look at each other and relinquish their weapons. Brasidas passes them to me, unsmiling, then watches as they disappear between the trees. 

“You’ll make a good father, Brasidas,” I say without thinking. 

He turns back to me slowly, pivoting on the spot. Then he looks me up and down, drinking in every part of me. 

“And you’ll make a good mother, Kassandra. Now let those children supply some meat and get over themselves in the process.”

He ventures back to the camp and I follow him slowly, sparing only a single glance back into the forest. It’s dark and very green, the melted snow providing a rich base for the plants. 

I don’t think they’ll kill each other, but I also don’t think either of them will return from the forest unscathed.


	11. Chapter Eleven

Slowly, too slowly, the rabble turns into lines that can defend their neighbour as well as themselves. Spears point to the sky in formation, directing the eyes of their enemies up to the sun, and away from the ground that would eventually field their bones. That was the idea, anyway. Ares watched on, sharpening his own spear, as Nike, his daughter of victory, placed her blessed hands onto the men designed to win. With them were Diemos, _the dread_ , and his twin brother Phobos, _the fear_. But it’s not their name that the men here pray to. The men who were helots, and were now unseasoned soldiers with their rippling muscles and high brows, pray to Adrestia. The daughter of Ares and Aphrodite, the woman who was equal measures good and evil, sublime and ordinary. She’s the personification of revolt, of retribution, of balance. 

And Sparta was unbalanced. And no where was that more obvious than here, in Messenia. Where our slaves were sourced and where families were torn apart by misbalance. This aspect of our society can not be stopped. Can’t be tempered. Can’t be delayed. Slaves will revolt, governments will fall, Kings will lose their thrones along with their lives. 

I don’t know if that will be the result of this mismatched army. I don’t know if my husband, my beloved husband, will march these men into Sparta and demand the payment for generations of blood. I don’t know if I’ll stand beside him. 

But here, with his commands obeyed and his voice harsh and strong, one could hope. 

Sometimes, when we were young and silly, my friends and I would do a thought experiment where we would say what we would tell our younger selves. What would we warn ourselves of? What would we say in longing, in secret, in hope? I used to say inane things. Now I would say something different. 

_Your family doesn’t want what’s best for you._

_Your mother doesn’t care for you at all._

_...Brasidas…_

_Trust Alexios. Always Alexios._

My loyalty to my family still flames. It was taught thoroughly and mercilessly as I was forced to solve ciphers under the pain of the stick. Back straight, head up, eyes forward.

Gods. What am I going to do? How can I possibly subject my own child to the same treatment? And it’s something I can’t control. My mother will take on the tuition, just as her own mother did. I was never my uncle’s concern in the early days because he still held the opinion that his wife could conceive, but even once that hope faded, he had little say in my education. I know it will be the same with the child I carry: Alexios, even when he is King, will not have a say. My mother will.

I don’t know if I can do it. It was a large reason why I didn’t want children in the first place. If they could grow up happier, unclaimed, then I’d have absolutely no reservations. Especially Brasidas’ children. 

Sparta makes fools of us all.

“Kass?”

There’s the wayward helot now. 

“In here,” I call, still rummaging through the rucksack for my blades. I thought I put them in here, with Brasidas’ things, but I can’t-.

Leather, bound by a red velvet sash. I’ve never seen this before. It almost looks like…

“Kassandra?” he says, poking his head into the tent. “I was going to leave the men in Lysander and Alexios’ capable hands while I repay you for missing the winter harvest.”

I sit quietly, drawing the leather armour out of the rucksack. It was wrapped lovingly, carefully. And it’s new, unharmed by blades or by arrowheads. As I draw it out further, I hear his breath catch.

It’s small. Too small for him. Soft and lucious. 

“Kassandra…”

I shove the armour back into the pack. Too roughly.

I flinch from his hand when it reaches for my shoulder. Tears have sprung.

“I had it made for you,” he whispers. “I ordered it before I left, but it was only brought by the messenger this morning.”

“Why?” I yelp, backing further into the tent. Away from his touch. 

“I thought…” he begins, looking equal measures terrified and bewildered. “I thought you wanted to be my right hand? You need armour for that.”

“How can you trust me after all I’ve done!” I yell at him, sobbing. “I tried to kill you! I sent men after you! You were forced into this just as I was!”

He sits back, away from me. I don’t deserve this level of consideration. I don’t deserve the amount of love he gives me. 

I’ve done impossibly horrible things. 

“Tell me what you’ve done, vassilokore?”

What I’ve done? Each act was calculated to destroy him. 

“I pulled a knife on you!”

“And you told me that you would. You even showed me where it would penetrate. I am undamaged by it.”

“I told my uncle that you were overextending yourself here, in Messenia.”

“And I came home with a victory, instead. Kassandra, you didn’t do any of those things. Not really.”

“Don’t forgive it so easily! My brother tried to kill you _twice_ because of me!”

I’m fully sobbing now. The yells are interceded by tears as they fall onto the silk sheets. Little beads of water that will stain the material Brasidas brought here for me. 

“I’ve even destroyed the fabric,” I whimper, pointing to it. The water will cause a ring of darkness. 

“This isn’t about the armour, is it?” he says, sliding across the floor closer to me. 

“Why did you get me armour when it probably won’t even fit.”

“Why wouldn’t it fit? It comes with leather ties at the side to be adjustable. And it has room for your bust.”

I burst into a new set of tears. This is too much. He’s too considerate. I’m too unworthy of it. 

I fall into his lap when he reaches me, part relieved and part still sobbing. He rubs the back of my neck, his go-to when I’m stressed or overwhelmed or just… too much.

“You don’t have to wear it, Kassandra, and I wasn’t going to show you until tomorrow anyway. I wanted you to wear a chiton today, a white one.”

I sniffle but don’t reply. 

“Because I have a surprise for you. I missed Gamelion because I was in Athens and I wanted to make it up to you.”

“That was six moons ago,” I whisper. 

“Yes, so it’s about time I scurry you off somewhere surprising.”

I laugh at him. He lightens my mood, even when it almost couldn’t get darker. “Where?” I ask.

“Into the hills. My mother’s house, if that’s okay. I’ve met yours, and I want mine to meet you.”

I burst into tears again. His _mother’s_.

The mother that taught him to sew, that grew up in Sparta. The mother that watched her husband and her son be slaughtered by my uncle. 

“A white chiton for innocence, eh?” I mumble. “Political, strategos.”

He thins his mouth a little. “I also want to show you the waterfall where I almost killed myself when I was seven, if that sounds better?”

“No - I mean, yes, but I also want to meet your mother. I do.”

He smiles then, that earth-shattering smile.

“Then get ready to go, I think we’ll stay the night so pack whatever you need. I’ll saddle the horses.”

“Horse,” I reply. “Lysander is borrowing mine, remember?”

The Lieutenant’s horse had torn a ligament and needed healing. He’d be fit to ride soon, but Lysander didn’t want to risk him. 

“Horse, then. You can ride pillion.”

He bows his head as he leaves the tent, and I quickly try to collect myself. 

I don’t deserve him. At all. He essentially gave me a gift, and I cried when I found it. 

Of course I want the armour. My standard as I stand next to him.

But I also don’t want to need it. I want there to be no threats to him, now or ever. I want him to be unscarred and unscathed. It’s the need for it that is jarring. 

And it won’t fit anyway. My shape has changed. I don’t know how many moons it’s been, but several. I carry more weight around my hips and my belt has had to gain some length. 

I still haven’t told him. He’s so effective at managing these men that I don’t want to interrupt that. I haven’t told my brother, either. 

Maybe I should tell the strategos on the ride. That way he can present his Spartan princess and his Agiad get at the same time. 

I shake my head of the thoughts. His mother will definitely hate me. I’d hate me, too.

\--------

I don’t ride pillion. I also insist on a gentle canter, even as his knees urge the horse faster. 

“See those mountains,” he says, pointing to the north-east.

“Yes.”

“That’s where we used to go as boys and hunt game. The largest hares you’d ever seen, and the wild yams to match. Archelaos used to build snares for them and we simply had to watch and wait.”

“For the yams?” I say, laughing.

“No, _vassilokore,_ ” he teases, tickling under my ribs. I giggle at him as he kisses the exposed cleft between my shoulder and my neck. “But my brother was amazing at contraptions like that. Clever with his hands.”

I’m embarrassed to ask. 

“How many brothers do you have?”

“Just three. Well, two, I suppose, now. And a sister, but she’s south of here. Married a fisherman, and he refuses to let her work. Nice man.”

“Archelaos was…”

“The one who died, yeh,” he says. I hear the sigh in his voice: things undone.

“I’m sorry, Brasidas.”

“It’s one of the reasons I couldn’t take your brother from you, Kass. I know what it’s like to lose one.”

I lean back into him and feel his arms tighten around me. I should tell him, but, instead…

“Your hair smells so good, my love,” he whispers, guttural. Like the words are escaping without his consent. “I have a secret place that I’d like to take you to, a place I found just before I went to Sparta. We can go there now, but I don’t like the look of this weather.”

I point my eyes to the west, clouds forming and wind travelling through the valley. 

“I think you’re right.”

He responds just by clicking his tongue at his stallion and causing the horse to quicken its pace. I don’t know if the action is good for the child.

Our child. 

I should tell him. 

He stops chattering to me, but instead moves his free hand so it sits on my stomach. I blanch, but he couldn’t have been able to tell in the noise of the moving horse. It sits there, protective, like he’s simply steadying me against himself. Unaware of the major anxiety it’s causing in me. 

Things should be missed in the movement of the horse but, distinctly, quietly, I feel the flutter underneath my skin. Inside, like a gurgled gut. But different. A hello. Saying hello to his father and I as we travel the countryside. 

I almost burst into tears again. I have to protect him. He can not become an heir to the Agiad. 

“Here, welcome to the chora,” he whispers against my hair. “My mother’s house is on the other side of the agora.”

He dismounts, taking the reins over the front. 

“Are you sure, strategos?” I whisper, leaning down and passing him his brace. 

“Yes, Kassandra. I’m presenting my wife, and I want to do her proper.”

He smiles, almost daring me to gainsay him. I lean back instead, hands on the pommel of the saddle, listening to his advice. This is his show to run, as it were. But if I was in his position, I’d want me to look as humble as possible. Entering a helot village on a black warhorse, being led by a Spartan strategos, is decidedly not humble. 

“What’s her name, Brasidas?” I ask quickly, fear bubbling up. I think I’m going to be sick.

“Argileonis,” he says. “And my father was Tellis. My brothers are Archelaos, Karpos, and Leontios. The latter two should be at home. My sister is Tellida, but you probably won’t meet her.” He looks up at me then, and likely sees the fear in my eyes. “Don’t stress, love. They’ll welcome you.”

I’m almost sure that they won’t.

\--------

“Brasidas!” a man yells, bursting from the tiny house. “Look how you’ve grown!”

“Karpos,” he says, trying to escape what can only be a bone shattering hug. The man is larger than him, impossibly, but unmistakably his brother. I stay on the horse. 

“Is that my neanikos?” another voice rings. A woman’s voice, clear as a day blessed with rain. 

“Yes, mater,” he says when she appears from the door. A small, slight woman with delicate hands. Grey hair, blue eyes, shining skin. The picture of health. This family is well fed. The political part of me questions it, and the new part of me smothers it away. They’re well fed because Brasidas sends them money, as I would do too, if my position was different. 

They haven’t noticed me yet, the reunion taking all of their attention. The warmth they radiate for my husband is astounding. I didn’t know that families could hold this much love. Even Alexios and I don’t touch this much, and I love him dearly. 

“Mater, Karpos, is Leontios here?”

“No, he’s still sowing. Our field finished early.”

“Okay, well. No matter.”

It’s easier to do introductions once, rather than spread out over half a day.

“Kassandra?” he says, looking up at me and offering his hand so I can dismount. His family’s eyes follow, only just noticing me. I dismount the horse, and stand behind my husband, holding his hand, with my eyes low.

“This is Kassandra Nikida, my wife,” he says, earnestly.

“Oh, welcome Kassandra!” his mother says, reaching for me and drawing me into a hug. “Brasidas writes so often about you. My name is Argileonis, but you may call me Lena. My son Karpos, Brasidas’ elder brother, and his other brother will be along shortly.”

“Thank you,” I whisper, not able to bring my eyes up.

“Come inside, the ride must have tired you.”

She’s being too nice to me. I share a glance with Brasidas and see an apologetic look on his face. So he didn’t tell them who my uncle was. He must have just told them that he was married. 

His mother has my hand and guides me inside. 

“She’s stunning, brother,” I hear Karpos say. 

“I’m very lucky,” Brasidas replies. “Wait until you hear her speak, she’s clever too.”

“You’d have to be to keep up with him,” Lena says as she deposits me into a chair at their table. The room is small, but not as humble as I would have expected from the outside. Brasidas and his brother alone fill the room, let alone what would have once been two further brothers and a father too. I look down at my hands, miserable about what my kin took from this house. 

“You have a beautiful home,” I say suddenly, almost desperately

“Thank you, Kassandra. I’m sure it’s not as nice as yours, though. I’ve not been able to get away to see Sparta since I first arrived here when I was fifteen. Following love,” she finishes wistfully, looking out the window. 

I can’t relate. I think love followed me, instead. 

“So, you’re Spartan?” Karpos asks, sitting between me and his mother. 

“Of course she’s Spartan,” Lena says. “Your brother wouldn’t be allowed to marry anyone else, isn’t that right, Brasidas?”

“That’s right,” he replies, only a small strain in his voice. 

“Not that I have anything against regular Spartans, Kassandra,” Karpos clarifies. 

I only nod. I want the floor to swallow me. 

“At least you didn’t fall in love with some heraclid brat, eh, Brasidas? You had enough contact with them as strategos. I still can’t believe it sometimes, that Sparta made _you_ one of their leading commanders. But I guess that means that they won’t see you coming, hey?”

I stay very still, and so does Brasidas. Karpos swigs from his wine, and Lena eyes me, assessing. 

The flutter again, from inside my gut. The reminder. 

“So you accompanied Brasidas here, rather than staying in Sparta, Kassandra?” Lena queries.

“Yes,” I almost whisper. “My brother is here, and I wanted to be by him, too.”

“Oh, what’s your brother’s name?” Karpos asks. “He’s Spartan too?”

“Yes, he’s Spartan,” I confirm. 

“Was he at Pylos? Because Leontios and I supported the Spartans there. I might know him.”

A small shift in Brasidas’ stance as he sits tells me that this is dangerous territory. 

“Yes, he was there. I doubt you know him, though. He’s only newly a hoplite.”

“I’m glad he survived the battle. It was bloody, that’s for sure. I was lucky to be assisting Brasidas with messages and the like. Couldn’t protect him from the demon that took his foot, though. I don’t have arms training, and I was away from him when the fiend approached.”

I can’t stand it. The lie is horrible. 

“It was my brother!” I shout, hopeless. I can’t look at their eyes, but I can’t justify continuing what has essentially descended into a ruse. “It was Alexios! Alexios is my brother and tried to murder my husband and I’m so, so sorry, and he is too, and he wasn’t himself and he-.”

“Kass, it’s okay,” Brasidas says calmly, warmly, patting my hand a little. 

Both his brother and his mother are silent as the grave. 

“Prinkips Alexios Nikidas is your brother?” Karpos says into the quiet. 

I only nod.

“Then you are Agiad, too?” Lena says.

I nod again. 

“Your brother is the heir to the Agiad, to Pleistarkhos?” Lena continues, her son giving her the floor for her questions.

I can only nod. Words refuse to come out. 

“This is the woman you’ve married, Brasidas? A villain who bathes in helot blood?”

“Don’t you dare speak of her that way,” he answers. “It is not her doing. She turns on the great wheel of fortune just like the rest of us.”

His brother laughs harshly at that, until Lena puts up her hand and he is silent. I find my voice.

“It’s indefensible, so I won’t defend it. But yes, my uncle is Pleistarkhos. I know it probably isn’t worth your lost loved ones, but I love your son with everything I have. I will never place him in danger for as long as I live, I swear it to you.”

“Ask me why I don’t believe you,” she replies. She doesn’t sound angry, but she could just be controlling it. 

“Mater!” Brasidas yelps.

“Because it would be easier for me to lie.”

“All you Heraclids are the same,” she says. “You take and take and take until there is nothing left. And then you turn to suck the earth dry.” She turns to her sons, both sitting dutifully. “I’m going to the chora garden to collect some beets, and she better not be here when I return, Brasidas. Karpos, come with me.”

They both rise, raging, and don’t look at us as they leave out the door. 

I knew they wouldn’t welcome me. I’m a burden to Brasidas now, as even his mother can’t look at him without being reminded of me. 

“Stay here,” he whispers to me, leaning down. “I’ll smooth it out.”

“I’m sorry, my love,” I say. 

“Don’t be sorry. I just have to - I’ll sort it out.”

He leaves then, his braces making quick work of his pace. And I’m left alone in a house that isn’t my own, with the owners telling me to leave quickly. 

I try to bury my tears in my hands, but for once, they don’t want to fall. I deserve all of this. Brasidas is too kind to me, blinded by love. His family love him and know what’s best for him. 

They love him and want me gone. I can understand it. If I wasn’t pregnant, then I’d probably make for the camp by myself, uncomplicating things for my husband. But I have to at least try, even for the sake of my child’s kinship. 

I grew up harshly, almost unloved if it weren’t for my father. The warmth that enveloped Brasidas when he arrived is not one I’d ever experienced, and I want my child to have that. I want them to be able to front up to this house and be welcomed, adoringly, into their midst. 

So I must try.

I look around the room, searching. It’s a fine balance between prying and being useful, and I want to embody the second one. Yes, I’m a heraclid brat but no, I’m not useless. I can cook, and Lena has an outdoor kitchen. 

The fire is already burning with a low rumble. I stoke it a little, bringing it back to life. Then I turn to her stores. 

My flatbread is very good, I’ve been told. But, then, it was helots telling me that. They might have lied because of my heraclid nature, rather than in spite of it. 

But, still, I can make _something_.

No meat, but she has plenty of fruit and vegetables, and spices and salts and preserves. I get to work.

\--------

I finish with a blue flower I find in the garden, giving it its own jar in the centre of the table. All of the food will keep until they return, so I leave the house to sit on the low wall at the back. There is a green field that leads to a forest and it lends me a calm I didn’t know that I had anymore. I don’t know if it’s Messenia, or Brasidas’ injury, or the child, but I’ve been unable to relax for weeks. All three of those things are stressful, but not to the extent they should be. Brasidas is managing beautifully. Messenia is coming together, and the helots will be fit to march very soon. And this child is wanted, despite my misgivings. Perhaps I’ll feel better once I tell his father. Perhaps I’ll feel better once I can guarantee that Sparta won’t swallow him whole. 

“Kassandra?” 

“Out here, strategos.”

“What in Hellas…” His mother’s voice trails behind him. I get to my feet and dust off my chiton, ready to try. 

Her face as she looks at the spread I cooked is just like her son’s. They’re both shocked and surprised. 

“I’m so sorry about your husband, Lena. And your son. I don’t know what that kind of heartbreak feels like, and I hope never to. But I’m very sorry.”

“Why?” she whispers, eyes still on the food.

“I placed a coin wherever I took something. I hope none of it was being saved for something special. I just wanted to-.”

“No,” she clarifies, looking at me for the first time. “Why are you sorry?”

I take a breath. “Because it’s simply a horrible thing. Unnecessary and terrible.”

She nods at me, then sits at the head of the table and reaches for a tart I made of asparagus and leeks. “Your favourite, Brasidas?” she says to him, pointing to it.

“Yes,” he confirms. 

“I could never stay on my feet for long enough to cook such a feast,” she says, eyes staying on mine. “My ankles would swell up. But once the sickness was gone, it was a joy to cook again.” She reaches over to the wine jug and pours herself a cup. She offers one to Brasidas, and he accepts it, taking the jug from her and pouring some for me. 

“Tell me, have your ankles started swelling yet?” she asks, almost conversationally.

I don’t know what told her. It’s the same as before: when small words in front of a mother tells them more than anyone else could ever discern. They see the roundness of the face, the declination of acidic tastes, the dubious moods. She’d seen something in me that told her more than I ever needed to.

“Not yet,” I answer, taking water instead. 

“It was hard, the first time. Archelaos didn’t come easily. He was his father’s boy in that way. Do you think this one will be the same?”

“What are you two talking about?” Brasidas interjects. We both ignore him. 

“He’s already very insistent on when I should toilet, so I think so.”

She laughs at that, a lovely ringing sound. “Who taught you to cook? I didn’t think Agiads deigned.”

“We don’t. Aiche, my mother’s cook, taught me once Brasidas was home from Attika. I felt like he couldn’t live off salted lamb and flatbread or he’d go mad.”

“That’s true. And is this one as discerning?”

“Please tell me what you’re talking about,” Brasidas says, resigned. I hate resignation, so I turn to him, smiling a little. 

“I’m pregnant, strategos. Your mother figured it out.”

He goes slack jawed. His mouth opens a little almost to let the shock and surprise escape. 

“You truly had no idea?” I ask, amused. 

“No. Well, looking back…”

“You carry it well, my dear,” Lena says. Not warmly, but an acknowledgement. Perhaps it will get better with time. 

“How many moons?”

“I don’t know, but I felt him move today.”

“So you’re about half way through,” Lena confirms. “A winter baby: he’ll be ferocious.”

“Like his pater,” I say, trying not to sound frightened. Trying not to seem scared. 

“Like his mater,” Brasidas replies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun tidbit: I once figured out that my sister was pregnant because she said no to fried eggs.


	12. Chapter Twelve

Gentle strokes. Soft fingertips. And tickling, the buzzing of a beard against my neck. 

“Strategos…” I whisper, stretching the muscles of my legs out. 

“Vassilokore…” he murmurs, muffled by my skin. The air has a chill and he arouses my goosebumps easily. The north has not been kind, but the furs are soft. 

Unable to help myself, I expose more skin to him and his nuzzling. He moves down my front, kissing and stroking my sides. My body can’t contain the nervous tension, goosebumps are just not enough even as they stretch from my shoulders to the curve of my thigh. 

He pauses at the new swell on my stomach, it nestled between the bones of my hips as they protrude. 

“Hello…” he whispers, cupping his hands. Reverent, unbelieving. His breath is warm like the centre of Hephaestion's lair, melting the flesh it touches. 

“So sentimental,” I reply, even though he isn’t speaking to me. 

“I love you,” he continues, low in his throat. Spoken to the Gods, into the incense as it drifts towards Olympos. To the child, sitting between us. 

I don’t reply, but I do stroke along his hairline and down to his ears. Admiring him, feeling him, remembering him. 

“Do you think she can hear me?” he asks.

“I don’t know,” I say. “But I can, and I’m sure she can feel the warmth that fills me.”

He chuckles, then kisses my skin slowly, eyes still on mine. Intimacy is like this: trust in small actions. Absolute certainty in the other person and the acceptance that they hold you so tightly as to almost squeeze. He held me now, in the palm of his large hand, as his thumb caresses my skin and his eyes bore into my soul. 

“Commander?” a gruff voice asks from just outside the tent. I instinctively curl into the furs, exposing my back and circling around my stomach. 

“What?” Brasidas answers, almost angrily. He tempers the response by kissing my bare hip, reminding me that his annoyance is not with me; not with us. 

“The Captain has requested you in the war room.”

“The bloody Captain,” Brasidas whispers. “I’ll be there shortly,” he says louder. 

He pulls up, kissing me thoroughly and spreading me out beneath him. Strong, sure, convincing. His hand cups my chin and I’m so incredibly captured by him that when he reaches above me for his chiton, I don’t notice. I also don’t notice when he pushes onto his knees, slipping his clothing over his head and quickly securing his belt.

“Nooo,” I moan, “don’t.”

He laughs, kissing me on the forehead. “Your brother summons me, Kassandra, so I go.”

I groan again, making him laugh as he leaves the tent. 

Too small, the time we have together. A month since we left Messenia, and entirely on the road. We bypassed Sparta, not going back. Brasidas didn’t trust my uncle not to murder the trained helots outright as they marched into the city. He also didn’t trust that my uncle would let me continue, him knowing the ripe hostage that I grew within me. Brasidas would be completely helpless with me remaining in Sparta, and he would not be able to gainsay the King. We’d received messengers, of course. Sly, shuddering words from my uncle claiming my mother’s misery at my and my brother’s absence. Requests, thinly veiled, that we return. 

I could do nothing but ignore the messages. But Alexios had to reply to them. If we returned, we would be forced to stay. Alexios is a capable man, and Brasidas is his Commander, but he needed something more to claim the need to stay with the helot army. So Brasidas promoted him.

Lysander is furious, his natural state. But, not because of the helots or the march or the pressure he’s under. It’s because of Alexios. Because Alexios was made Captain. Because Lysander is still a Lieutenant. 

I retrieve my chiton from the pile we’d created once camp had been made. It was late afternoon, hence the cooler air, and I’d needed the sleep. My husband was kind enough to assist me. But we’d learnt our lesson in Messenia: our camp was away from the rest of the troops, nestled between a few trees. 

It’s almost time for supper. I follow Brasidas into the war tent.

“... spies from Lebadeia have returned. Word is that Athens hears more than whispers.”

“Dangerously?”

“These hills are theirs. Everything here is dangerous.”

“Hmm.”

“Sister,” Alexios says, laying a hand on my shoulder. 

“Brother,” I reply. “Let me guess: we’re too close to Delphi?”

“Yes, I think we are. Apollo smiles, though.”

There’s a reason he was made Captain. He’s grown, a man. A King, if I’m honest. 

“It’s time for the meal,” I say, looking at him. “Have you seen Lysander?”

“Yes, he’s been called.”

I thin my mouth a little. 

“By Brasidas,” he explains, putting up his hands deferentially. “I’m not going to poke the bear.”

“You have to get over this, we’re almost in Makedonia.”

“ _I_ don’t have to get over anything. He does.”

I swallow my retort. It would be unhelpful, anyway. The Captaincy had destroyed any hope they’d had of being friends. I retreat to the corner of the tent, where the spread of simple fair was prepared by me yesterday. Cooked, packed, then casually eaten through the week. But Lena was right: it’s becoming more difficult to stand on my feet. 

I haven’t told Alexios. I seem to have a problem trusting him with this. He’s still my uncle’s man, I think, even though the cracks are appearing. He might ship me to Sparta himself. 

I’m just pushing the chairs out, four in total, when a harsh laugh erupts outside the war tent. Booming. I know the political play Lysander is playing, and it’s a smart one. Alexios will always be separate from the helots he commands. He was not a mothakes, and he was a Krypteia. He probably destroyed some of the men here’s lives, and yet he commands them. So Lysander, the golden boy, was trying to make himself insufferably popular with the men to seed discontent. I intended to stop it. Tonight.

“Lysander,” I greet, smiling. 

“Kassandra,” he replies, waving off the guards who stand at the front of the tent. The men he was laughing with. 

“Come, sit. Start with the carrots, I put them in a honey glaze just for you.”

Flies; vinegar; honey. 

He sits at the table, in his usual position. We eat together every night, the four of us at my insistence. There were to be no excuses and no missed meals. Each of our minds primed and assertive, but Lysander had been straying. Working his own ends, forgetting why we had put the helots together in the first place. 

I sit too, grateful for the rest. 

“How goes the stragglers?” I ask.

“They’re improving. Maintaining their lines well, even through these mountains. I received the last of the spears from the blacksmith, too, so everyone is well equipped.”

“Oh, good. I was concerned that we could enter a battle without arms.”

“Lysander, Kassandra,” Brasidas says as he sits, kissing me lightly on the forehead before he does so. 

“Strategos,” Lysander says. “I was just telling Kassandra that we’d finished arming.”

“The weight of the practice spears are slightly less than the finished iron ones, so they’ll need to be vigilant in their training,” Alexios says, sitting too. 

“They are vigilant,” Lysander says, unkindly. “The field will be unmatched.”

“Especially now that they have arms,” I say, shovelling greens onto Alexios’ plate. 

There’s a moment’s silence after that, in which we all take a mouthful of food. 

“I, ah,” Lysander starts, “I received a dispatch from Sparta today. I think perhaps they thought that the messages to you,” he points at me, “weren’t getting through. But it had some, ah, _information_ in it.”

I swallow my peas, almost choking. “From who?”

“Pleistarkhos. Addressed to me specifically.”

“Why would uncle correspond with you?” Alexios asks harshly. 

“I’m not beneath the correspondence,” Lysander replies in the same tone. “I’m a commander, too.”

Alexios scoffs, and I can see it escalate.

“What did he want?” I ask.

“Well, firstly, he congratulated me on the promotion to Lieutenant, three months late but there it is.”

Alexios scoffs again.

Lysander turns to him sharply. “Not all of us have nepotism to thank for our success, _Agiad_. Some of us have to actually work for it.”

“You and I both know that I would be in this position even if I wasn’t the heir,” Alexios says, waving his hand dismissively.

So much for a calm and conciliatory dinner. 

“I do, do I? Even with your very specific training and how you were only made Captain so you wouldn’t have to return to Sparta, tail between your legs, crawling back to the King?”

“At least I know-.”

“Enough,” Brasidas says, cutting through. “Both of you. What else did the dispatch say?”

Lysander and Alexios both look down at their plates sheepishly. 

“It asked specifically for Kassandra to return with…”

Oh no. 

I haven’t told Alexios yet. 

“...the child.”

“Savage bastard,” Brasidas spits. “I knew he’d want hostages as leverage against the army. We’ll never be able to return to Sparta with them now.”

Alexios is silent, looking at me carefully. I turn to him slowly, beseeching through my eyes. 

“You’re…?” he whispers. 

I only nod.

He lets out a breath. “I didn’t want to ask. But-.”

“You knew.”

He nods, letting his eyes go to the floor. 

There’s a moment, just now, a tiny fragment of time, when I’m dangling between loyalties. When I fear my brother: fear his mind; the possibility that his hands could act for the Agiad. He’s been one of the shining lights of my life, but we’ve lost him before to the bloodsport that Sparta built of him. He could turn and force me to Sparta. He could stand and bellow his command. I could lose him again, because the child I carry is designed to be his heir. I was trained and married and bred to provide a King’s guarantee of succession. 

But, instead, tears spring into his eyes. 

“This is so dangerous, Kass,” he whispers. 

“I know.”

“Not even Brasidas can protect you. Not even I, or pater, can protect you from this.”

“I know.”

“How far have you got to go?”

“Two moons, or so. Long enough to achieve what this army hoped to. I had to tell uncle because wives are only permitted to accompany their husbands if they’re pregnant, otherwise he wasn’t going to let me go. No doubt he’s convinced the Apella and the Ephors to shift that particular law.”

He reaches out his hand and I grasp it for dear life. 

“We can take Amphipolis in the next week,” Brasidas says. “But then we’ll have to defend it.”

“Pleistarkhos will claim him,” Alexios says, still looking at me. 

“There’s nothing I can do, Alexios. Nothing. But I can’t let him grow as we did, afraid of our own shadows. Controlled like a leashed dog.”

I don’t hear it, the scoff from Lysander that sets my brother on him. It was only later that Brasidas told me how it unfolded.

But Alexios suddenly leaps from his seat and punches the Lieutenant in the jaw, channeling his fury and fear and vengeance. Lysander sprawls to the floor, spitting blood, before leaping over the table for Alexios’ throat.

None of the soldiers within the war room move, including Brasidas. They seem barely interested, and I’d guess that there was a syndicate paying for how long it would take for these two to come to blows. Someone has won money tonight. 

For my part, I leap from my seat, conscious of my own limitations in trying to come between them. 

“Just let them fight,” Brasidas says, looking down at his plate. “They need to get it out of their system.”

But then Lysander reaches for a spear and I lose my patience. I sweep towards the water bucket, used for washing the dirt from the face, and throw it on the brawling men, bellowing at them.

“What the _fuck_ do you think you’re doing?” I yell, knowing the whole camp can hear me. 

Both have bloodied faces. Alexios is nursing his hand as Lysander rubs his ribs. Both erupt in explanation, as if I wasn’t sitting at the table that started this ruckus. 

“Enough!” I yell. “Everybody out!”

The soldiers melt out of the canvas, leaving the four of us alone. 

Once it’s quiet, I sit on the floor in front of them, leaving Brasidas in his seat behind me. 

Oh, _Gods_ , are we _parenting_ these two idiots?

I shake my head of the thought and narrow my eyes at them. 

“Lysander, I want brutal honesty as to what the problem is,” I say.

“He never has to work a day in his life and gets given everything!”

That’s not true. Many of the boys that attend the agoge simply wouldn’t survive an heir’s training. There’s a reason that it occurs separately. Al slept in the barracks with the others, trading spars and jokes and friendships, but during the day, he was tested with real metal and if he couldn’t be the best, he wasn’t worthy of being King. 

Lysander would know this, if he had have asked. If Alexios had have told him.

Alexios opens his mouth to retort, but I put up an impatient hand. “Continue, Lysander. Anything else?”

I know there’s something else. This vitriol is too personal; it cuts too close to the bone.

He’s sheepish, looking down at his hands. They writhe in his lap like a twisting snake, this way and that, trying to find freedom from the question. 

“Because we used to be friends and then he started throwing cabbages at me.”

There. I thought so. 

I turn to Alexios, only eighteen and already too mature. He’s two years younger than Lysander, but they’re of the same build, even sitting here on the floor next to each other. His mouth is firmly closed, as if trying to force the Agiad part of him away. I know the look in his eye because I’ve been struggling with it, too. 

“My uncle threatened to kill you, Lysander,” he whispers in reply. “He said that if I disobeyed him again, he would have you burnt.”

I gasp, my breath caught. 

Burning is not something we do, even to the most heinous of criminals. To strap a man to a pyre, his soul still inside, was to sentence it to wander the earth. He would never find Hades, he would never find peace. And Pleistarkhos threatened it against a sixteen year old boy. 

“When did you disobey him?” Lysander asks, mouth wide. “You were always his perfect student.”

“The night they came for you, I couldn’t let them take you. I’d not been the heir long, and needed discipline, my uncle and mater said. You were going to be the lesson.”

“I didn’t know.”

“I never told you. But I’m sorry about the cabbages, and the tomatoes, and the tripping, and the ink.” He pauses, suddenly becoming very interested in his shoes. “I always thought they disapproved of our friendship because you were a helot, but then uncle married these two and I figured it was for other reasons.”

Lysander is only facing Alexios now, even as he refuses to look up. 

I stand, quietly, and they don’t notice. Brasidas gestures to me and I help him to his feet, and softly, without footfalls, we leave them to the war room.

“Did you know about that?” I whisper to him as we make our way back to our abode. 

“No. Though I suspected there was some personal injury under their rivalry.”

“I don’t know when Sparta will stop demanding us.”

He stops then, aggressively taking my hands in his and bringing them to his mouth. He kisses each fingertip, each knuckle. 

“She will never have you, either of you, so long as I live, Kassandra. Do you understand me? I don’t care what she wants to take, or destroy, she will never, ever have you.”

I close my eyes to the tears. How could he swear such a thing?

When we return, it’ll go back to the way it was. I will be the woman in the Apella, lurking in search of plots. Brasidas will be the strategos, ready to win the war. And the child will be an heir, subject to the same brutality as Alexios was. Trained, goaded, unable to be himself. 

“I swear it,” Brasidas whispers again. “Nothing else matters to me except your safety and the safety of our children. No glory, no revenge, nothing. If I lost you, then I’d be rudderless.”

“It’s too late. My uncle has already demanded me. I can’t disobey him, and he will know that we ignored a direct order.”

“We take Amphipolis this week,” he replies, bringing my hands to his mouth again. “Please trust that I can keep you safe in that city, at least until your time.”

“Then we return to Sparta and our son is lost.”

“No. Would you…” he hesitates, thinking. “I would give up everything for you, Kassandra. My title, my home, my achievements. Everything, just to have you safe with me. Would you do the same?”

The answer is easy. 

“Yes. Everything. I’d give up everything.”

“Then we make for the mountains, my love. We leave.”

The thought had ventured through my mind many times in the last few years. Escaping the drowning tradition, the roiling hurt, the continued threat. With an armful of food and not even a horse to track my path. A small house, not dissimilar to the one Brasidas grew up in, with a garden and trees for climbing. The squeals of children running through the hills. 

Safe. Warm. Home. 

“I can’t leave Alexios, Brasidas.”

I look up to his eyes then, absolutely sure. “I can’t leave my brother to Sparta’s terror.”

He nods, but I see the small lowering of his shoulders. “Yes, of course,” he murmurs. 

This isn’t the last time we’ll have this conversation. I know that. We will rehash this exact discussion everytime Sparta inflicts an injury. Each time we will discuss disappearing from the city, and each time we will remind ourselves that she owns us, body and soul. No one may leave the state without the King’s permission, but it goes beyond that. Pleistarkhos would send bloodhounds, mercenaries, his own Krypteia to find us and drag us back. Brasidas would be executed, I would be placed in chains, our children would be taken from us and dive deep into the traditional upbringing they deserve. So we would decide to stay. We would weigh the risks, and decide to stay. 

Then, Sparta would injure again, and again, and again, each time making running more justifiable, less obtuse. What would our limit be? A maim? A death? The loss of a son to Sparta’s wolves? Would that be enough for us to pack everything and venture away from there?

Sparta would never be satisfied. But I must take responsibility for myself and decide what I owe to my children. 

Safety. Warmth. A Home.

\--------

Useless. Trite. Sitting on my hands when they could have been holding blades. Should have been. 

How _dare_ he? 

Who the fuck does he think he is?

My keeper? My minder? My fucking _kyrios_?

I can’t hear the bellows, but I can feel the ground rumble as a thousand Messenian helots descend on Amphipolis and seek to gain it from Athenian hands. Control the north, then you control the silver. Control the silver, and Athens will fall. 

He rode away without waking me. He left our bed and didn’t utter a word.

And he might not fucking come back. He’s missing a limb for Gods’ sake! He can’t walk without his brace, he can’t stand for long periods of time, he can’t-.

This was what I was relieved about when he first came to me with his injury. Horrible, painful thing, but it meant he was free of duty. He would think, but he wouldn’t act.

But, instead, he is mounted on his stallion issuing orders as he surveys the field from his perch. His Lieutenant and his Captain ensuring they were followed. 

Taking a city. Letting the city open their gates to him and the better terms Sparta brings. Athens bleeds them dry, they say, and Sparta might ease it. We have no such orders, and the latest is that Sparta will match the imposition, but the Makedonians don’t know that. 

I growl in frustration. 

“It’ll be easy to take, Kassandra. Don’t fret,” Timon says. 

I try not to round on him, but I do shoot him an agitated look. He is my guard: whether to keep me safe or to keep others safe from me, I wasn’t sure. 

“Is that why it required the whole compliment?” I ask, drawing in the dirt with my finger. 

_Akakios._

No.

_Eutropia._

No.

_Gaiana._

No.

“To test their training, of course,” Timon lies, after a moment of hesitation. 

“They require the whole compliment because they could lose the city,” I reply, dispassionately. “The same reason that we didn’t bring Spartan hoplites.”

“Brasidas will be fine, Kassandra.”

I look at him then. He’s aged on this expedition. His brown hair has grown light with the sun, and I see the stoop of his shoulders as he leans on his spear. Then I remember: this trip has been punctuated by his trips home to Sparta. He’s one of the messengers as well as one of the commanders. He has a wife and a child at home.

“How goes your daughter, Timon?” I ask, changing the subject. It’s worth it just to see his eyes light and the smile return. He’s easy going; always smiling. 

“She’s really well! I miss her, of course.”

Collateral damage. Many men here had been taken from their homes on a gambit. But, this should win the war with Athens, at least. 

“What did you call her?” 

“Sofia, for my wife’s mother.”

“Did she have an easy time?”

“Ah, yes, I think so. But I’m not really included in that kind of discussion and I don’t have anyone to compare it to.”

I nod, smiling lightly as I turn away. 

A gaping hole, it turns out. I have no one to compare to either. Perhaps I should return to Messenia, to Lena, and she could-.

No. It would be an imposition. 

I wish I could trust my mother with my child. He tumbles, even now, likely woken by my stress today. Perhaps she can hear the battle and is wanting to join. 

But now I can: the thundering of hooves on the bare mountainside. I jump to my feet as Timon pushes me behind him, one man against his commander’s fury.

“Kassandra!”

“It’s Alexios,” I say to Timon, pushing past him. He follows, not at a respectful distance, until I break through the undergrowth that was shielding me. 

His horse is bloodied and injured, a great gash across his side. But Alexios looks unharmed; bright in the sun and shining in the aftermath of battle.

I don’t have to ask for him to answer.

“The city is won. Your husband and Lysander are already inside, setting the defenses. I’m to take you down to them.”

He puts out a hand to me and I take it, mounting the horse behind him. “Follow us too, Timon,” he says to the Spartan behind me. Then Al clicks his tongue and the horse starts a quick walk into the countryside.

“Tell me,” I say, almost yelling in my desperation for news. 

“Won easily, Kass. Brasidas commanded from his horse, with Lysander and I reacting and relaying. The men worked very well together: four months has done them well. Disciplined as any Spartan.”

“How many lost?”

“A few, but Amphipolis opened the gates to us. The ones that we lost were picked off by the fleeing Athenians, stragglers, at the back.”

I breathe. I sigh. I push my face into the back of my brother’s gold armour, hot from the sun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contained my 200,000th word on AO3!
> 
> The word was "know" :).


	13. Chapter Thirteen

“Not even a scratch,” he says, throwing a grape into his mouth.

“A lie,” I reply gently, touching the scab on his upper arm. A glancing shot caught him; he didn’t notice, apparently. 

“Fine, a lie,” he concedes, pushing a strand of hair behind my ear. “But nothing major.”

I only nod, throwing a grape into my mouth. The sun is welcome on my skin after the chill of the wind, and I’m wearing only a simple chiton without a cloak. We’re sitting on the hill overlooking Amphipolis, watching the helots we brought build barricades. Athens is coming.

His hand grazes from my ear down to my neck, fingering the hair. 

“Isn’t it an old wives’ tale that pregnancy makes hair grow quicker?” he asks, running the golden brown through his fingers.

“Yes, I’ve heard that. But, also, not cutting it also causes it to grow.”

“Do you want to cut it?” he says wistfully, kissing the bottom of my jaw. 

“Do you want me to cut it? I thought you liked it long.”

“I do,” he confirms. “But it’s the sign of a wife. You still want to be my wife, yes?”

I laugh at him, leaning into his touch. 

“I wish we could do it again,” I murmur, close to the wind. Maybe if the words disappear over the rise, I could pretend they didn’t exist. I love him, and I trust him, but even these close thoughts are hesitant.

“Do what again?”

“Our rites. It would give me the opportunity to mean them.”

“ _I swear to keep you whole; keep you loved; keep you safe_ ,” he whispers, his lips grazing my neck.

“Why did you say that?” I ask, eyes closed against the tickle. “You were forced just as I was. You could have said anything.”

“And I chose to make an effort, Kassandra,” he chuckles. “I saw a young woman, controlled wholly, trapped, and chose to make her life easier, rather than harder.”

I groan at his consideration. At how easily he sympathises and acts. He puts the rest of us to shame. 

“Tell me yours again,” he continues, moving his hands under my chiton, making me shiver. 

“No, they were terrible.”

“Then tell me new ones.”

I put my hand on his bare chest, the hair curling under my fingers. 

What can I say that would encompass him? Or how I feel? Or how he has the answer to every problem I’ve ever had; how he _is_ the answer? How even this nick on his shoulder is too much. How even the thought of him taking the field tomorrow fills me with dread and fear that he might not return. 

As if on cue, the child tumbles. 

“You promised me your lineage to my children,” he says, hand moving to my stomach. It’s in the way. Always. “I thought Alexander, for a boy,” a kiss on my shoulder, “or Eudoxia for a girl.”

My heart clenches, almost violently. The child’s future hangs in the balance. 

“It will be fine, Kassandra,” he whispers. “I swear it.”

“You can’t swear that; nobody can.”

“I can. I have an idea.”

I narrow my eyes at him, but he doesn’t answer my unasked question, just smiling in his small way. Sure. Certain. So corporal, and in my hands. 

I push him onto his back and kiss along his jaw and neck. 

“Athens will be here tomorrow,” I say, whispering. “Make me a promise.”

“Yes,” he replies, breathy. 

“Don’t field.”

“No.”

A hint of anger, of mistrust. 

“You already promised.”

He rolls away from me and I let him go, sitting back onto the balls of my feet. I know he can’t avoid the field, just as I know that he can’t avoid death. It comes for us all. 

“Why do you ask me not to field, Kass?”

I swallow my fear. It leads to hesitation which leads to death. 

“Just a feeling,” I answer truthfully. The nightmares were getting worse. They almost imposed on my waking moments, the skull under his skin exposed and placed in a golden box, praised by Amphipolis as a founding member. His crypt built in the agora and adorned with flowers and fruits and gifts and gold. His name praised, sung, the story of his success reaching Olympos even as he dwells in Hades. 

His light finger on my cheek brings me back, the images of his death unescapable. 

“I will be fine, Kassandra. Your brother will be beside me, as will the rest of my men. I’ve survived every battle, and I’ll survive this one.”

I don’t believe him. I don’t know what it is. Maybe it’s because this baby could be born any day, maybe it’s because the end of this jaunt is in sight. After the silvermines are held, we will have to return to Sparta. 

I don’t believe him. Just a feeling. 

“So you will field tomorrow?”

“Yes, my love, and I will be fine. Now, let me tell you my idea.”

\--------

The dinner tonight is quiet. Brasidas and Lysander are at the makeshift barracks, finalising plans for tomorrow. Scouts have Athens here in the early afternoon, just as the sun is in our eyes instead of theirs. I don’t think it will make a difference, but any advantage. 

Alexios sits in front of me, running his spoon through the peas but not eating any of them. I can relate: my plate is essentially untouched despite the rich pickings. The owner of this house has been a gracious host and their garden has proven bountiful. 

“Tell me what’s on your mind,” I say into the silence. 

He continues to roll his peas. 

I don’t have enough to say, or to think, to fill the space. My mind is only on how Brasidas refuses to command from behind the lines; how he insists that it’s his voice that must be heard by the men in order for them to fall into line. He underestimates them: he’s prepared them well and they could form their phalanxes without their commander. Perhaps it’s the echoed need for glory present in all Spartan men. Or, perhaps, he simply has a death wish. I don’t know. 

“I can tell you what’s on mine,” I continue. “Just death.”

“He’ll live, Kass. Don’t worry.”

“Why does everyone keep telling me not to worry? What do the songs say? With your shield or on it? I could lose him tomorrow. Or you.”

“We will be together. I’ll be defending him personally.”

He sounds offended, like I was doubting his prowess on the field. My brother and my husband, killed together by the same Athenian mercenary. A single swipe of an axe sending them to Hades. 

“You’ve never worried before,” he says, echoing the strategos. 

“Just a feeling,” I repeat. I make an effort and push some venison onto my fork. “Where were you today? Even Brasidas didn’t know where you’d gotten to.”

He glances at me, before his eyes return to his vegetables. “I went for a ride.”

“Like on a horse?” I say, mocking.

“Yes, like on a _horse_ ,” he replies, matching my tone. “With some of the men.”

I feel the curl of my mouth at his words. 

Alexios used to have friends. In the first wave of the agoge, when he still slept at home and before our uncle claimed him, he used to run and jump and scream with the rest of them. Boys and girls learn together in the beginning: their letters, the songs, the stances that they would require in war. I remember supervising them down at the river as they swam off the day, splashing and laughing. He had friends then.

But then he was named _prinkips_ , the Agiad. And his friends melted away from him like lard on a warm day. Separated by necessity. Reverence. Expected respect.

He had a separate existence after that. 

“Where did you go?” I ask casually.

“Just into the hills. Which reminds me, Kassandra, try not to bed your husband in public, yes? At least for my sake.”

I feel the shoot of warmth up my neck and burst onto my face. “I didn’t,” I whisper. 

“No, but I still had to avert my innocent eyes.”

I laugh then, relieved at his joking. “It was just a picnic.”

He hums in sarcastic agreement, finally placing some food in his mouth. 

“Who did you ride with?”

“Just some of the men,” he dismisses. 

“Yes, I know all of them. Give me names.”

“Why?”

“Because I want to know?”

“It’s none of your business.”

So protective. Stridently so. Why. 

“Oh my _Gods_ ,” I exclaim, dropping my spoon with a mighty clang. “ _Lysander!?_ ”

Now it’s his turn to flush all the way to his forehead. His skin is darker than mine and it doesn’t bathe him in pink as it does me, but the rosy embarrassment tells me that I’m right. 

“No,” he splutters, looking between his hands, the window, the door, back to his hands. 

“ _Yes_ ,” I tease. 

“Okay fine. Yes, Lysander.”

I survey him, and the man he’s become. Shoulder length hair, tied into braids by my own hands. I placed the beads myself, counting out the prayers that accompany them. He’s not embarrassed, I’d gotten that wrong. 

He’s scared. 

“It’s okay to have friends, brother,” I say carefully, measured. 

“Lysander almost died once for being my friend. When we return to Sparta, he might be at risk again for being more.”

“Where did you ride to?” I ask, trying to draw him out of his fear. 

“To the waterfall behind the vineyards. There are huge obelisks of stone north of here, and there must have been a spring at the top, feeding it clear water. It was slightly salty when we drank it, and the horses wouldn’t go near it.”

“Sounds great.”

“Yes, I want to go there again, after we route Athens. You’d love it.”

I smile at him. He’s at ease again, his shoulders relaxed. “You’ll have to show me.”

“I’d have to ask Lysander: he called it a secret place.”

He looks down at his hands again, splaying them along the table and exposing his knuckles. “I’ve never had freedom like this, Kass. Ever. Other than my obligations to Brasidas, I have no other shackles. I don’t have to hide my feelings from my face. It’s freeing.”

I know the feeling. At home, with my husband, I can be totally myself. I can say my mind without fear; I can reveal myself wholly. 

“You can have that all the time, Alexios,” I say, reaching my hand out to his, grasping. 

“I have been ignoring letters,” he says quietly. An admission, almost as if he’s confessing to a crown crime and is expecting the sword slice. “From Sparta.”

“From mater?”

“No, from her brother. I… I don’t know how to reply. I don’t want to reply.”

Alexios’ obligations are different to mine. He needs to reply. 

“I received one today,” I whisper, drawing my hand out of my pocket. The scroll’s seal is broken, its contents jarring. 

“From uncle?”

“From pater. But there was one from uncle inside it.”

Pater’s prose was short, sorry, knowing. Uncle’s writing was longer, and from a different perspective. I unfold the letter, letting my eyes roll over it again.

He would disown me if I refused to return to Sparta. He would execute my husband. He would claim my child, and raise them as Agiad. All of the horrors of my nightmares written in a simple scroll with a simple seal. I wonder if my father allowed it. I wonder if he knew the words it held. 

_...my love, my kore, I don’t know what’s happening in Makedonia, but I trust your judgment. If you don’t think returning is in your best interest, then I trust it._

I wipe the tears from my cheeks. Pater always was the shining light.

_I love you, and I love the child you carry, even if I never meet them. I’m sorry for not being strong enough, for not protecting you more. You deserved better._

I can barely read it now. My eyes have lost their focus as they swim. 

Once I thought I was swimming through the dense air to reach Brasidas, to bring his lips to mine and be enveloped by his love. But now I feel like the current is only sweeping me away. 

He knew. My father knew about my uncle’s threats. This letter is his goodbye. 

“Show me, Kass,” Alexios says, putting out his hand. 

“It’s horrible, Al.”

“All the same.”

I pass him the scrolls, one held within the other. He takes them gingerly, like this is a test. I always appreciated his hesitancy, even if we were taught that it led to death and that it was unSpartan. 

I think I’d like to be unSpartan. 

“Gods, Kass,” he says, whispering almost to himself. “Do you know what this means?”

I don’t react. Rhetorical, orational. 

“If your child is a boy then I’ll no longer be the heir.”

“She might be a girl,” I murmur, letting the dread spill from my gut, through my veins, spreading tightly until it reaches the very end of my fingertips. 

“Or he might be a boy,” Alexios replies. “I knew that ignoring letters would have consequences, but this…”

Sharply, he crushes the letter from our uncle in his fist, roaring from his throat in frustration. 

“Years and years of training and strategy and sparring and scars and fear and he just wipes his hands!” he yells. “Something so easy as a lack of correspondence, and he leaves me, _us_ , completely out to dry!”

I tilt my head at him, my tears drying. 

“Alexios, do you think it is only your lack of letters that has caused this?”

He breathes heavily, his shoulders taking the brunt of the shift. 

“He’s disowning you because he can’t control you. And because you assist his great enemy. Disowning you has killed two birds with one stone.”

I settle my temper with three quick breaths before I continue. 

“He needs Brasidas dead, out of the picture: his disloyalty is treason and he’ll be thrown from Taygetos. And he needs me back, simply to be the object that births his heir. I wouldn’t be surprised if the story changes once both me and Brasidas have been executed: that Pleistarkhos’ wife was not barren after all, and here is the miracle from the Gods.”

“No,” Al whispers, disbelief. 

I was always better at this than him, and I saw it coming. 

But Brasidas has a plan. He just has to survive tomorrow, and then we can put it into action. 

“We can’t let him do that, Kass.”

“What would you give up for freedom, Al?”

He doesn’t hesitate.

“Everything.”

I sigh, relieved.

“Everything, except you, Kass. If I return, then he might leave you be. He might leave the child alone.”

My beautiful brother; forged in fire, as optimistic as a sunrise. 

“No, Al. He won’t. But Brasidas had an idea. I won’t do it unless you agree to it.”

\--------

I can feel the rumble in my bones. Terror, pain, anticipation all mixed into my gut. Even the child feels it, staying quiet and still as my heart beats so loudly that I’m sure Thrake can hear it. I didn’t sleep last night. No one did. 

Brasidas returned, slipping into bed next to me as I lay awake, waiting for him to die. Waiting for them all to die. 

_Vassilokore_ , he’d said, whispering and gently stroking my skin above where his son was sleeping. 

_Strategos_ , I’d whispered back, tracing every line of his chin and neck and ears and brow. 

How did it come to this? How could I let him go?

My hands tremble as I fit him with his armour, him standing steady with his brace under one hand. 

“I’m going to ask you again,” I whisper, tying his chestplate.

“Please don’t make my words to you this morning be in anger, Kassandra.”

“Please command from behind,” I say, continuing despite his protests. 

“Kassandra, the answer is no. Please don’t ask me again.”

I thin my mouth, but kiss his shoulder lightly, lingering in the warmth under his skin. 

“Is everything prepared here?” he whispers.

“Yes. Lysander has the letters already written. Alexios was only unhappy about that aspect.”

“Hmm, it might not be permanent for him.”

“Or it may be.”

I run my hands down the textured front of his armour. The golden filigree detail; the small blue accents; the grime surrounding the metal. I almost reach for the linen cloth to smudge the dirt away, even if just to delay him. 

“I am yours, until I enter Hades,” I whisper, looking into his eyes. Seeing their depths. Feeling their warmth. 

“And I am yours, forever, Kassandra.”

He kisses me lightly then, on the forehead, easing my worry from the skin. 

Then he takes his spear from the rack and sheathing it to his back, takes one last drink of the sight of me, and walks down the hill from the house. I watch as he greets my brother, hand to his shoulder, and mounts his black stallion. One final look at the house, then he turns and rides his horse down the hill and away from me. 

Dread isn’t the right word for it. It’s knowledge. It’s awareness. It’s an unstoppable action belied by an unthinkable result. 

But, still, he rides away. 

Into oblivion.


	14. Chapter Fourteen

_‘Fall,’ said Athena. ‘Fall to your knees  
and remember your gifts.   
Remember your life was  
only the first of them.’_

_So clever Brasidas fell  
and lost his spear, sunk to  
the ground, crushed under  
the feet of thirty score Athens. _

_Dirt in his mouth and blood  
in his hair, golden crowned. Our  
hero sought the blue sky if  
only to see Helios again. _

_For Hades is dark; looming.  
The scythe claimed him, there  
and then, reaching, forever reaching.  
His words were quiet, measured._

_A prayer.  
Not for him.  
But for her, his love.  
Sparta._

_Then the last bellow, the call. A  
command, sure and exacting.  
‘Push, push’ it said, the north   
curling the hills and running._

_Tails between legs and victory assured.  
But Brasidas of Sparta, the menace   
strategos, bellowed his final. A curt call,  
to the birds, to the bees, to the sweetness they make._

_‘I’ll see you soon, my love,’ he said.  
Then he fell, head to the ground and  
mouth full of dirt. To be burnt, buried,  
praised, honoured, glorified. _

_Loved.  
_

\--------

“What do you mean, lost! What the fuck does that mean!”

The young man stood still, quiet, unglaring and uncompromising. Watching, simply watching. 

He’d been in this room enough times to know the King’s true temper. He’d seen the false temper, once or twice, usually when one of the Agiads indicated their disapproval of something small in the war room. But how the King was braying now was real; untempered temper. 

“Amphipolis was won, King,” he said, head tilting slightly to the right. Mock confusion. Delay. Innocence. Anything to prevent the King’s political mind from working.

“I don’t care about that backwater!” he bellowed, throwing the scrolls to the floor. They floated with the dust under the heavy glare of the Spartan hoplites and phalanxes that lined the walls. Blue and brown eyes peering through time and beyond. They’d seen wars won, Kings banished, Spartans killed. No matter the subject, they would brood their disapproval: spears waiting and blood hidden. That was why they wore the red cloaks after all: to hide the blood of the men destroyed for their glory. 

“The silver has already begun drying up, King. And Athens has lost half of their population to plague. I intend to lead the spartiates to war in Attika, with your permission.”

The King’s breathing doesn’t change. It was hard and heavy: taking in ragged air and expelling it. Each breath was a prayer: perhaps for forgiveness, perhaps in thanks, perhaps in anger. He’s practiced at exactly this: he’s been practicing since he was ten years old and his own father was killed on the field of battle. Thrown into the throne; a boy with a cloak too long and a spear that trailed along the ground. 

Couldn’t his family see that he only ever did what was best? That he would never commit the frauds committed against him by his regents; by his tutors when they thought him too young and foolish to see the greasy marks they left on his legacy? No. He was good, and fair to his kin. But now…

“And the helots?” the King asked, controlling his temper at last.

The young man in front of him doesn’t relax. He knew better. Months trading barbs with the trained apprentice to the King had given him an edge in discussion that the master likely didn’t see coming. The barbs turned into words, which turned into endearments. 

Lysander shook his head.

Distractions. That’s all Agiads ever were. Distractions. 

“They will be trained by the agoge, bolstering our hoplite numbers. They will not be citizens,” Lysander said carefully, knowing his own motivations were laid bare. “But will enter a new class of helot. Workers with income; supporters of Spartiates as they war. They will live in the barracks, and when they have families, those families will have their own houses.”

The King grunted, tacit agreement. Lysander continued.

“There was one thing that they were promised by Brasidas of Sparta, something I myself tried to dispute.”

Pleistarkhos leaned forward, barely able to hear the young man’s speech. Lysander knew the merit of purposeful framing. 

“What was that, Captain?” the King asked. 

“The immunity of the new class to the Krypteia.”

“Why should they be immune?”

“Brasidas was of the opinion that it would lead to loyalty. More flies with honey, rather than vinegar, as Kassandra used to say.”

It had the effect Lysander was hoping for. 

The King threw himself back into his high backed, wooded chair, face awash. Grief; fury. Perhaps he would never accept his niece’s death. Brasidas fell in battle, his horse lost below him and the Athenians finding a way through the lines. Kassandra couldn’t take the news, throwing herself from the battlements. Lysander had ensured that she was burnt in Amphipolis, her bones buried with her beloved husband. 

Grief does funny things to people. 

“Yes, fine. I agree to the terms for the helots.” The King waved his hand in dismissal; Lysander ignored it. 

“I also have the last diary entry for _prinkips_ Alexios Nikidas, King, if you wanted to see it?”

Pleistarkhos goes even greyer, impossibly, as he reached out his hand for the paper. His eyes glazed over as he read in what can only be an expression of his grief.

“All is lost,” he whispered. “The Agiad is finished.”

The Captain doesn’t offer sympathy because he simply doesn’t have any. He was forged in a different fire: an unforgivable oven of forced tradition. He has nothing to lose, and only accolades to gain. He would take Athens, as Brasidas tried and failed to do, helped along by the strategos’ long-term politics. The plague was Brasidas, the silver was Brasidas, and Lysander would reep.

He knew that Brasidas wouldn’t have minded. He was training him for exactly this. To be a commander, a Lieutenant, then a Captain, then a Strategos. A mothakes, designed to bring Sparta to glory.

But not the Agiad, no. Lysander would not glorify a royal house. Instead, he’d joined with others to destroy it. 

And destroy it they had. No heirs, and no hopes of one. No cousins to appear out of the woodwork and all of their aspirations dead in Makedonia. 

Kassandra. Alexios. The child. All dead. Wiped. Lost. 

Lysander put out his hand to receive the paper back from his King, bowing his head respectfully. 

“With respect, King, I think I should deliver this to Nikolaos and Myrrine myself. I was with Alexios when he died in battle, and I can comfort them that he didn’t suffer.”

The King only nodded, handing the paper back. 

And as Lysander exited the throne room, his hands behind his back and his scrolls in his rucksack, he heard the unmistakable sound of weeping. 

\--------

There was a difference in the crying. 

The King was controlled, even in his waves of grief. It wasn’t the misery of a parent who has lost both of their children in one fell swoop. It was the loss of control that Pleistarkhos mourned. 

But Nikolaos, the Wolf of Sparta, with his battle hardened mind and his hands calloused from years and years of spearwork, fell to the earth and screamed when he heard of his children’s fates. 

Joined in the stars: Kassandra and Alexios were inseparable in life and in death. It wasn’t only Brasidas’ fall that made her leap. 

This, Lysander could recognise. He’d seen this in his own family, in the families of the helots destroyed by Sparta. In a small way, hidden and shameful, part of Lysander thought these Spartans deserved this. They were comfortable in their longevity: untouchable. Then Thanatos decided differently. But the way Alexios had spoken of his father was different. Nikolaos would mourn his children for the rest of his days. He loved them deeply, without reservation, and Lysander knew that. 

“I’m sorry for your loss, Nikolaos,” he said, sitting next to the broken man. 

“Did he suffer?” the father asked.

Lysander shook his head simply. He thought about the phantom kopis strike that felled Alexios, but decided to keep it to himself unless Nikolaos asked directly. 

“And Kassandra?”

Lysander shook his head again. “I have this letter for you. She wrote it… just before. For you only, the front says. I didn’t break the seal.”

Nikolaos took the letter from him, smoothing out the paper. It had travelled many miles, the salt water of Hellas marking it. Fists shaking, he broke the seal and read quietly.

Lysander didn’t pry. He knew the contents: Kassandra had explained them to him in case the letter didn’t make it. She wanted to tell her father specific things. 

But she had to keep the most important part to herself. 

Once her father was finished reading, Lysander produced the scroll that was Alexios’ last diary entry. 

“Alexios was my dear friend, Nikolaos. I hope that I brought even a little bit of joy to him before he died.”

Nikolaos nodded, taking Alexios’ momento from him. Lysander didn’t mind. He had a copy, too. 

“Thank you, Lysander. I can’t imagine the burden this has placed on you. I will forever be indebted to you.”

“I’m glad to have been able to do it for them, sir. They were extraordinary. I’m sorry to have lost them as friends.”

He left the house then, walking to Brasidas’. He had instructions, clear and guiding, of certain objects, weavings, letters, pottery, and carvings that the Agiads and the strategos wanted gone. 

Decided in the clear air of morning, after a night of planning. Writing letters, faking documents, deciding the story most likely to be believed. 

It had been a month since Amphipolis was won, and Lysander had seen the helot army return to Sparta. Long enough for questions to be ignored. Long enough for memories to be fogged by time. 

No one saw Alexios’ body.

No one saw Kassandra’s body.

Lysander had fastidiously burnt them quickly, privately, with only Brasidas’ closest men in attendance. Timon, and Andreas, had built the pyres.

And by the time the helot army had returned to Sparta, the Agiad heirs were deep into Thrake. Deep into safety. 

Lost, and then found. 

\--------

The sun wakes me, as it usually does. Spring was a promise on the air, but only the flowers and the birds gave me that impression. It was colder here than the depths of winter in Sparta. The furs were little help, but the grey cloak was a relief against the wind. I liked walking among the forest and along the riverbeds, waiting for the thaw that would send them tumulting over the rocks. It was peaceful; easy. 

I stretch out on the tiny cot that had become my mainstay. A second bedroom was a luxury, but this one pointed south and caught the sun at its warmest. So this was the cot where the child slept, and me with him until he woke and cried out for milk. 

He was getting better at drinking. The midwife used her strong second fingernail to cut the skin binding his tongue, letting him extend it further than he had before. It was a relief that meant I was free of cup feeding him. But he was missing now, and my grogged sleep was disturbed by remembering my brother’s arms, carrying him away from me. 

Alexios was a dutiful uncle. Gentle, kind. Compromising. All the things we’d missed. Perhaps the parenting would go the other way: maybe we would spoil him and cause him to rot from the core. 

But no. He was a baby. It was impossible to spoil a baby. 

“Kassandra?”

I stretch again, pushing my legs out and almost overextending my hips. Then I rise from the bed that has become mine and his, heading into the living room.

“Brother,” I say, kissing him on the forehead.

“Sister,” he replies, eyes only on the boy. “We went into town this morning and the potter has been having some trouble with the north road. Apparently some bandits have set themselves up to rob him, and he wants me to go along with him next week to fight them off. Easy money.”

I thin my mouth. “Are you sure? You’ve been doing pretty well only completing small errands. This will take you away from here for a few days.”

“Do you want me not to go?” he asks. 

It’s a balanced question. I’ve enjoyed the quiet that the last six months have brought. Cooking, feeding, eating, sleeping, feeding, washing, making, feeding. But perhaps Alexios is agitated. He was trained for greater things than this. 

Alexander stirs in his lap, likely woken by my voice. His dark brown eyes open, crowned by his blonde hair. 

Then the smile. His father’s smile: earth shattering. 

I take my son from him, smiling and cooing. He has his father’s high brow: proud. The strategos had mentioned that he could see his mother in him, too: the pout when he was cranky. And he was cranky almost constantly: assertive; knowing his worth even in infancy. I contented myself in the half-lie that it would benefit him when he was grown. That he would never question his worth. That he was born of royalty, even if he never knew it. Even if we kept him from it. 

“A letter from Lysander, too,” Alexios says, waving the paper in the air. 

“He needs to stop sending you letters that you can’t reply to, Al,” I say, latching Alexander to feed. 

“Oh, I thought of that,” he says confidently. “I’ve created a pseudonym for myself. He writes to the Eagle Bearer, because…” he reaches into the rucksack he’d taken into town. “He was able to swipe this from pater’s house.”

He’s holding the Eagle in flight that we’d fought over, the one our father carved for us. I burst into laughter, watching Alexios’ easy grin and relaxed posture. 

He’s _happy_.

He’s happy here. He’s safe and warm and loved. He has no expectations. He can be completely himself. 

“And he wrote that Athens has almost surrendered. And when they do, there will be peace, and he could, ah, get some time off.”

“Al…”

“I know, I know. But I thought-.”

“We have to be so careful Alexios. One tiny slip will see us dragged back to Sparta.”

“I’m not going to be stupid, Kass. I know how much you and Brasidas value the life you’re building here.”

I consider him through hooded eyes. 

“I’ll meet with him in Makedonia. And I need to Kass. You remember the torture of being apart from Brasidas.”

Like a knife. Agitation. Horrible reckoning.

“Just please be careful,” I whisper.

“I’m the Eagle Bearer: I’m always careful.”

He grins at me then, and I can’t help but be swept up in his energy. Anything can happen here. We can be whoever we want to be. 

Alexander can be who he wants to be. 

I sense the horse before I hear it. It’s always like this. The sloughing of dire expectations; the relief then the joy as I remember his safety. 

I unlatch Alexander and put him on my hip, his trunk strength getting better everyday. Walking into the sun, he blinks in order to get used to the light, then hides in my shadow as we watch his father approach on a small pony. 

A grey chiton and a grey cloak. No braid, cut; just like his beard. Just as we let my hair grow to obfuscate recognition, so have we camouflaged him. 

I heard the song recently: the one they sing in Amphipolis. It’s very good. Brasidas protects the city, is their hero, then falls and dies with the love of Sparta on his lips. I don’t doubt that Lysander had a hand in it. 

I eye him, searching him instinctively for new injuries. 

“I’m sorry I was gone for so long,” he says, dismounting. “I couldn’t find Asparagus in the agora so I had to travel further south.”

“Perhaps I should just grow some,” I reply, watching as he pushes his brace under his arm. 

“I think it grows more easily in the north.”

He reaches us, and his hand on the back of my neck is the promise it’s always been. Of things misplaced then found; of words hidden then discerned. 

And his mouth is full of promises too, but not ones I’m ignorant of. His promises to keep me whole; loved; safe. And he has. 

“How is my Thrakian terror,” he whispers, taking Alexander from me. The boy smiles at him, joy reaching from his eyes to his chin. His grandfather’s chin: my father’s footnote in our child. My breath catches slightly at remembering the pain we have caused. 

I’d asked myself what I owed to my children, but, in doing so, had failed to ask what I owed to myself. 

But the answer is the same. It will always be the same. Not strict tests; silk cloth; power. But warmth. Safety. Home.

“Come, my love,” Brasidas says, wrapping his arm around my middle. “Tell me what adventures we’ll get up to today.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I've really appreciated your comments and kudos!
> 
> I have plans for a few one-shots leading off this fic, so keep an eye out for those!
> 
> <3

**Author's Note:**

> Like my work? Donate to the NSW/ACT Aboriginal Legal Service!  
> https://www.alsnswact.org.au/donate

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [By the Pools of Makedonia](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22948048) by [Madoking](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Madoking/pseuds/Madoking)




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